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JOSEPH  CONRAD 

A  STUDY 


BY 

RICHARD  CURLE 

At'THOR    OF 

'aspects    of    GEORGE    MEREDITH,'      SHADOWS    OUT    OF    THE    CROWD 

*  LIFE    IS    A    DREAM  ' 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE 


'  Efficiency  of  a  practically  flawless  kind  may 
be  reached  naturally  in  the  struggle  for  bread. 
But  there  is  something  beyond— a  higher  point, 
a  subtle  and  unmistakable  touch  of  love  and 
pride  beyond  mere  skill ;  almost  an  inspiration 
which  gives  to  all  work  that  finish  which  is 
almost  art— which  is  art.' 

The  Mirror  of  the  Sea 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &   COMPANY 
1914 


TO 

CONSTANTIN   PHOTIADES, 

NOVELIST  AND  CRITIC 


PREFACE 

The  facts  in  this  book  relative  to  ^Ir  Conrad  ha\-e 
Mr  Conrad's  authorization,  the  criticism  is  entirely  my 
own  affair. 

No  one  can  reaUze  more  clearly  than  I  the  difficulty 
of  WTiting  a  pioneer  book  about  Mr  Conrad's  works. 
My  excuse  for  doing  it  must  be  my  excuse  for  the 
way  in  which  it  is  done.  There  are  many  points  that 
need  further  developing — the  individual  structure  of 
the  books,  for  instance,  the  general  sense  of  form,  the 
realism  and  romance  of  Mr  Conrad's  art,  his  feeling 
for  tragedy,  and  his  philosophy.  As  to  this  last,  I 
must  admit  that  I  dislike  the  habit  of  wTiting  gravely 
about  the  philosophy  of  novelists.  That  is  to  wreck 
the  meaning  of  a  work  of  art,  although  it  is  true 
enough  that  art  divorced  from  ideas  soon  wears 
very  thin.  A  novelist's  philosophy,  as  such,  does 
not  concern  literary  criticism,  although  his  person- 
ality, which  is  largely  the  accumulative  effect  of  his 
outlook,  does.  The  purely  moral  treatise  type  of 
fiction  is  neither  more  nor  less  ridiculous  than  the 
type  which  is  concerned  wholly  with  experiments  in 
form.  As  in  everything  else,  common  sense  is  the 
surest  guide  in  criticism. 

Let  me  point  out  here  that  part  of  my  object  in 
writing  this  book  is  to  arouse  interest  in  the  greatest 


Vlll 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


and  least  known  of  Mr  Conrad's  novels,  in  the  mar- 
vellous" Nos/romo.  My  judgment  in  regard  to  this 
novel  is,  I  believe,  heterodox,  and  I  am  aware  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  convert  critics  who  have 
already  made  up  their  minds,  but  I  do  hope  that 
what  I  have  to  say  will  have  some  influence. 

This  study  of  Mr  Conrad  has  been  written  both  for 
the  students  of  his  work  and  for  those  who  know 
nothing  about  it.  (The  last  part  of  Chapter  II.  and 
all  of  Chapter  III.  are  especially  intended  for  the 
latter.)  But  throughout  I  have  aimed  at  real  criti- 
cism  and  not  mere  statement  or,  in  fact,  mere 
rhetoric.  1  should  like  to  add  that  I  have  re- 
ceived many  very  valuable  suggestions  from  various 
friends,  of  which  I  have  made  the  freest  use. 

But,  indeed,  Mr  Conrad  is  in  some  respects  his 
own  best  critic.  Readers  of  Some  Reminiscences 
will  remember  that  that  book  is  full  of  remarks  as  to 
his  methods  and  ideas — criticism  of  the  subtlest  and 
most  distinguished  order.  ("  Conrad's  Achievement 
in  the  Light  of  his  own  Criticism  "  would  make  an 
absorbing  twelfth  chapter  to  this  study.)  But  it  is 
in  The  New  Review  for  1897,  in  that  discarded  Preface 
to  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus,"  that  Mr  Conrad  has 
most  beautifully  crystallized  the  very  foundations  of 
liis  artistic  ideals.  Those  forgotten  pages  should  be 
in  tlic  hands  of  every  student  of  Mr  Conrad's  work. 

R.  C. 

Af>rit  1914 


CONTENTS 


Preface  ..... 

CHAP. 

I.  Conrad,    his   Critics   and   his   Contempor 
ARIES  .... 

II.  Conrad's  Biography  and  Autobiographical 
Books  .... 

III.  Conrad's  Novels  and  S,tories 

IV.  Conrad's  Atmosphere 
/v.  Conrad  as  Psychologist 

/VI.  Conrad's  Men 
VII.  Conrad's  Women 

VIII.  Conrad's  Irony  and  Sardonic  Humour 
IX.  Conrad's  Prose 
X.  Conrad  as  Artist 
XI.  Conrad's  Position  in  Literature    . 
List  of  Conrad's  Published  Books 
Index  ..... 


JOSEPH    CONRAD 

CHAPTER  I 

CONRAD,    HIS   CRITICS   AND    HIS   CONTEMPORARIES 

I  HAVE  long  wished  to  say  something  about  Conrad 
which  could  not  be  said  in  the  space  of  a  single  article. 
Since  I  first  began  to  read  his  books  I  have  been  drawn 
to  them  to  a  very  unusual  extent.  And  that  must  be 
my  chief  excuse  for  doing  what  it  is  generally  ridiculous 
to  do,  writing  a  book  about  a  living  author.  In  fact, 
to  write  books  at  all  about  authors  is  rather  stupid. 
People  form  their  opinions  for  themselves.  Moreover, 
time  settles  all  questions  of  merit  with  a  pretty 
accurate  hand.  Yes,  it  is  so,  and  for  my  final  justifica- 
tion I  must  fall  back  on  a  profound  conviction.  And 
my  conviction  is  this — that  Conrad's  work  actually 
does  mark  a  new  epoch. 

I  know  that  it  is  easy,  and  not  in  the  least  convincing, 
to  make  such  statements,  and  that  the  only  proof  of 
the  pudding  is  in  the  eating.  And  therefore  I  would 
urge  every  reader  of  this  book  to  study  Conrad  for^ 
himself.  For  criticism,  unlike  creation,  has  few  magic 
words  at  its  service.  There  is  a  kind  of  intuitive 
accord  that  seems  to  defy  expression,  a  kind  of  close 
and  famiUar  appreciation  that  seems  to  illumine  the 
mind  and  to  paralyse  the  tongue.  The  business  of 
criticism  is  to  surmount  this  impasse  between  con- 
viction and  the  power  to  convince.  And  I  believe  that 
it  can  be  done.     No  doubt  the  magic  word  would 


^i••*:^i•^  ii.JJOSjEFH  CONRAD 


clothe  the  voiceless  perception  in  a  way  that  logic 
alone  could  not,  for  it  would  be  the  creative  element 
in  criticism  and  would  possess  the  illusive  qualities 
of  the  thing  criticised,  but,  failing  that,  the  same  result 
can  be  attained,  at  last,  by  absolute  sincerity  and 
sympathy.  In  the  long  run  these  do  achieve  their 
purpose,  they  do  present  a  real  picture,  they  do  sur- 
mount the  fearful  obstacle  of  which  all  critics  are  so 
acutely  aware.  And  that  is  what  I  would  like  to 
claim  for  this  monograph.  I  have  studied  Conrad's 
works  \'cry  closely  and  I  have  come  to  some  definite 
conclusions.  It  is  these  that  I  present  here  as  well  as 
I  can. 

/  Of    course,    Conrad    is    an    exceptionally    difficult 
/writer  to  discuss.     He  is  one  of  these  men  whose  extra- 

/  ordinarily  vivid  personality  pervades  everything  he 
writes  to  such  an  extent  that  a  good  many  people 

\  do  find  him  impossible  to  read.  One  must  differentiate 
all  this  from  mere  mannerism,  the  mannerism  that 
spoils  such  writers  as  Meredith  and  Hugo.  It  is  not 
mannerism  in  the  case  of  men  like  Conrad,  that  is 
to  say,  it  is  not  the  mannerism  of  eccentricity,  it  is 
the  j^ositive  strength  of  their  personality.  Flaubert, 
for  instance,  an  indubitably  great  artist,  arouses  this 
antipathy  to  a  marked  degree.  He  could  efface  him- 
self in  one  sense,  but  in  another  he  was  visible  in 
every  line  of  his  work,  and  not  only  visible,  because, 
of  course,  everyone  who  is  anyone  is  that,  but  visible 
in  a  singular  and  almost  menacing  fashion.  He  sets 
up  in  certain  minds  a  temperamental  antagonism. 
Nor  is  he  unique  in  that.  Other  commanding  writers 
do  the  same,  such  writers  as  Dostoievsky  and  Walt 
Whitman,  for  instance.  And  now,  as  far  as  I  can 
judge,  we  have  to  add  Conrad  to  this  hst.  Some 
people  of  intelligence  are  quite  hostile  to  Conrad.     I 


CRITICS  AND  CONTEMPORARIES        3 


k 


think  it  must  be  that  he  seems  to  envelop  things  with 
his  own  sombre  and  poetic  imagination  rather  than 
show  them  to  us  in  their  actual  light.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, his  story  "Youth"  and  contrast  it  with  Hudson's 
The  Purple  Land.  Essentially  they  are  both  concerned 
with  the  same  idea — the  glamour  and  romance  of 
youth  ;  but  I  can  quite  understand  people  asserting 
that  Hudson's  story  does  give  the  feeling  of  youth, 
whereas  Conrad's  story  gives  only  a  philosophic 
dream  of  wtet  yomh^~migteto::b"e77^^^^  that  were 

true-,-whieh  I  doubt,  I  do  not  think  it  matters  (it  is 
the  difference  between  a  self-conscious  and  an  unself- 
conscious  artist) ;  but  I  see  why  the  supposition 
might  arise,  and,  in  seeing  that,  I  grasp  w^hat  it 
is  about  Conrad  that  is  antipathetic  to  some.  It 
is  his  passionately  romantic,  melancholy,^. and-ironic 
mindr-^ — _„..,...» .^^^-'— 

But,  of  course,  there  is  also  a  much  simpler  reason. 
To  read  Conrad  calls  for  exeridon.  and  nowadays  that 

enough"To~damn  any_oner  The  exertion  arises  from 
thgjact^hat  he Jj  imaginative,  and^  requires,  in  his 
readers,  grTUTresponding  and  increasint^  effort__of  the 
imaginatioriy27Reading  him,  as  a  friend  of  mine  says, 


is  "  like  a  leap  of  the  mind."  (^And,  furthermore, 
he  is  a  visualiser.  To  follow  him  we  have  to  form 
very  definite  images.  He  actually  excites  th'e'optic 
nerve.  Unless  the  reader  is  prepared,  for  .this  effort 
he^wiiriose  half  the  effect.l  And,  again,  although  he 
is-romantic  and  a  visualiser  yet  he  is  emphatically  a 
man  of  hard  edges.  In  a  few  words  he  can  create  a 
sharp  outhne.  This  is  an  almost  unique  gift,  and 
combined  as  it  is  wdth  his  romantic  manner,  is  quite 
sufficient  to  arouse  our  lurking  and  natural  antagonism 
for  the  unexpected. 

And  Conrad's  reputation  suffers  from  another  and 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


a  much  more  insidious  cause.  It  appears  to  me  that 
he  is  positively  misunderstood  by  many  of  the  people 
who  admire  him  most.  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  put 
it  better  than  by  saying  that  he  is  regarded  as  the 
author  of  Lord  Jim  rather  than  as  the  author  of 
I  Nostromo.  Anyone  who  really  understands  Conrad 
J  will  follow  me.  For  Lord  Jim,  powerful  as  it  is,  is 
representative,  on  the  whole,  of  the  more  ordinary 
and  didactic  side  of  Conrad,  whereas  the  neglected 
\ostromo  is  representative  of  a  much  subtler,  more 
moving,  and  more  truly  creative  side.  Indeed, 
Xostromo  has  an  imaginative  maturity  quite  beyond 
the  scope  of  Lord  Jim.  That  one  instance  gives  us 
the  key  to  a  widespread  misconception  about  Conrad 
— a  misconception  none  the  less  complete  and  all  the 
more  difficult  to  refute  from  the  fact  that  it  is  half- 
hidden  under  the  guise  of  judicial  wisdom.  I  don't 
want  to  be  misapprehended.  I  only  take  the  question 
of  Lord  Jim  and  Xostromo  as  a  sort  of  symbol  to  explain 
something  I  find  it  hard  to  explain.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  really  poetical  and  thrilling  things  in  Conrad 
arc  largely  ignored  and  that  they  are  ignored  because 
most  of  the  critics  are  upon  the  wrong  tack.  Most, 
not  all .  Moreover,  there  is  a  kind  of  Conrad ' '  tradition ' ' 
in  the  air — a  thing  as  deadly  to  a  man  as  a  spider's 
web  to  a  fly.  For  a  tradition  emvraps  an  artist's 
endeavour  in  a  mist  of  delicate  falsehood.  How  many 
careers  have  been  ruined  by  an  epigram  ?  And  though 
Conrad  is  obviously  too  striking  a  writer  to  be  sum- 
marised in  a  phrase,  still  the  critics  have  begun  to 
expect  from  him  work  of  a  certain  kind.  Not  only  is 
he  prc-judgcd,  which  at  the  best  is  a  stultifying  process, 
but  he  is  pre-judged  along  bad  lines.  These  "  tradi- 
tions "  about  authors  are  always  dangerous,  and 
wlicn  they  are  positively  wrong  then  the  whole  critical 


CRITICS  AND  CONTEMPORARIES        5 

ground  slips  from  under  the  feet.  Year  by  year 
Conrad  is  emerging  into  recognition,  a  Conrad  famous, 
respected,  but  a  Conrad  more  or  less  "  placed."  And 
"placing"  is  a  compliment  which  is  meant  to  round 
you  off  for  good  and  all. 

These  charges  are  vague,  indeed,  and  hard  to  sub- 
stantiate. There  has  been  little  set  criticism  of  Conrad 
and  the  ordinary  book  review  is  notoriously  untrust- 
worthy. Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  there  has 
not  been  some  good  criticism.  The  most  penetrating 
I  have  read  was  that  by  Ford  Madox  Hueffer  in  The 
English  Review  for  December  1911.  Unfortunately 
it  is  very  slight.  But,  indeed,  it  is  to  Edward 
Garnett  that  readers  of  Conrad  owe  the  greatest 
debt.  For  he  was  the  first  to  "discover"  him — 
if  I  must  use  such  an  offensive  expression.  That  his 
earliest  work  should  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
'this  eclectic  and  un-insular  critic  is  something  to 
be  thankful  for.  For  Conrad  has  told  me,  himself, 
that  if  Almayers  Folly  had  been  rejected  he  would 
never  have  written  another  book.  But,  except  for 
such  rare  and  shining  exceptions,  we  can  put  all  the 
criticisms  aside.  If  I  had  to  prove  my  point  from  them 
alone  it  would  be  easy  enough.  Denser  ineptitudes 
never  gave  heartier  praise  to  an  original  genius.  I 
include  my  own  past  writings.  But  in  saying  that 
discerning  critics  miss  the  best  in  Conrad  I  am  not 
talking  so  much  of  the  written  word.  The  wisest 
remarks  about  modern  authors  are  nearly  always 
those  spoken,  and  it  is  in  conversation,  mainly,  that 
one  feels  the  pulse  of  current  opinion.  And  though 
I  have  heard  some  very  wise  and  piercing  things  said 
about  Conrad  the  general  pulse  is  beating  in  a  groove 
and  beating  in  vain.  And  in  all  this,  let  me  emphasise, 
I  am  not  referring  to  his  enemies  but  to  his  admirers. 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


For  it  is  they  who  have  leavened  public  taste  in  regard 
to  Conrad. 

In  making  the  general  statement  that  Conrad  is 
not  properly  understood  I  do  not  want  to  run  my 
head  against  a  wall.  I  know  I  put  my  case  roughly. 
Such  impressions  are  often  only  highly  sensitive  re- 
actions and  as  such  quite  beyond  positive  proof.  A 
parrot  cry  is  easy  to  lay  hold  of,  but  a  mental  attitude 
is  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  Besides,  criticism  has 
become  something  of  an  intellectual  vested  interest. 
When  critics  get  hold  of  an  author  they  are  not  only 
annoyed  if  outsiders  disagree  \yith  them,  but  they  are 
annoyed  if  the  author,  himself,  disagrees.  In  other 
words,  they  are  pained  when  an  author's  work  does  not 
fit  into  their  preconceived  theories  about  it.  That 
is  one  reason  why  critics  are  so  fond  of  labels.  The 
more  remarkable  the  author  the  more  intolerant  are 
they  of  his  reputation.  This  is  curious  but  easily 
explicable.  Anyone  whose  personality  lies  strongly 
upon  his  work  is  bound  to  affect  his  readers  in  a  very 
definite  way.  At  once  an  image  is  formed,  which 
is  cherished  like  a  fetish  and  guarded  with  an  excluding 
jealousy.  Such  images  are  precious,  dogmatic,  and 
easily  outraged.  (I  need  only  instance  the  reception 
of  The  Secret  Agent  in  Conrad's  case.)  Whatever 
happens,  the  author  is  prejudged.  And  in  my  opinion 
Conrad  is  in  grave  peril  of  this.  The  final  word  on 
him  trembles  upon  the  critics'  Hps. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  Conrad,  as  a  pheno- 
menon, is  as  yet  but  little  realised.  He  is  still  con- 
founded with  men  of  talent.  (For  it  is  hard  to  beheve 
that  a  real  genius  can  have  arisen  with  so  small  a 
perceptible  stir.  Conrad  never  woke  to  find  himself 
suddenly  famous.  And  the  very  scope  and  essence 
of  his  originality  is  bewildering.     For  he  is  not  simply 


CRITICS  AND  CONTEMPORARIES        1 

original  in  the  ordinary  sense,  he  is  volcanic  without 
being  anarchic.  There  is  nothing  bizarre  about 
Conrad.  His  work  belongs  to  a  tradition  (not  an 
English  tradition,  it  is  true),  but  it  no  more  resembles 
the  work  from  which  it  derives  than  a  fish  spued  up 
from  the  bottom  of  the  Atlantic  might  resemble  a  fish 
of  the  surface  except  in  so  far  as  they  were  both  fishes. 
The  volcanic  in  Conrad  staggers  some  people,  whereas 
his  lack  of  anarchy  and  fanaticism  annoys  others. 
For  in  England  an  original  writer  is  the  man  of  ideas 
rather  than  the  man  of  subtlety.  We  want  brilliance, 
and  if  we  cannot  have  brilliance  we  want  a  problem. 
It  is  not  the  least  surprising  that  men  like  Shaw, 
Wells,  and  Galsworthy  are  so  influential.")  They  are 
influential  because  they  are  representative  of  the  best 
side  of  English  insularity.  Of  course  their  popularity 
is  as  nothing  compared  to  that  of  Florence  Barclay 
or  Hall  Caine,  and  perhaps  not  even  so  big  as  that  of 
the  society  novelists,  Hichens,  Benson,  Locke,  and  so 
on,  but  they  are  probably  as  popular  as  any  intel- 
lectuals are  ever  likely  to  be  with  us.  Conrad's  genius, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  foreign  to  even  the  most  advanced 
English  tradition.  He  is  not  concerned  with  righting 
the  world  and  he  is  not  sparkling.  He  is  neither  the 
novelist  of  himself  like  Chesterton  nor  the  novelist 
of  types  like  Meredith.  He  is  the  novelist  of  real 
people.  Such  impersonality  has  never  been  appre- 
ciated in  England.  And  Conrad's  romantic  spirit, 
too,  is  alien  to  the  English  mind.  It  is  not  the  mere 
spirit  of  improbable  adventure,  but  a  sort  of  philosophy 
impressing  itself  with  ardour  and  pessimism  upon  the 
splendour  and  darkness  of  the  world.  Romance  as 
the  last  word  of  reaUsm  is  an  uncomfortable  idea. 
People  hasten  to  explain  it  by  the  word  "Slavonic," 
just  as  they  hasten  to  explain  the  exuberance  of  his 


8  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


style  by  the  words  "  The  Tropics  "—if,  indeed,  anyone 
who  so  transgresses  the  ideals  of  Pater  and  Wilde 
can  be  said  to  have  a  style  at  all. 

To  speak  frankly,  there  is  a  far-reaching  popular 
delusion  as  to  style.  What  is  regarded  by  many 
people  as  style  is  technique  of  a  particularly  con- 
ceited and  self-conscious  type.  Not  only  has  taste 
for  the  negative  qualities  been  obliterated,  but  taste 
for  the  robust  personal  qualities  as  well.  I  discuss 
Conrad's  prose  elsewhere,  so  will  merely  say  here  that 
liis  defects  and  his  qualities  alike  would  horrify  a 
"stylist."  Who  can  wonder  at  the  reaction  against 
style  or  blame  those  who  consider  it  a  devilish  inven- 
tion, banishing  jollity  and  humanity  ?  Better  far 
revert  to  fire-works,  morality,  and  complicated  plots 
than  swoon  with  "  stylists  "  in  a  garden  of  roses. 

That  Conrad  should  have  an  increasing  reputation 
on  the  Continent  is  not  astonishing,  for,  after  all, 
his  affinities  lie  there,  but  that  he  is  now  considerably 
read  in  England  and  America  calls  for  some  remark. 
Of  course,  there  is  a  fashion  in  these  things,  founded 
chiefly  on  curiosity  and  vanity,  but  we  must  suppose, 
also,  that  Conrad's  enormous  power  has  really  begun 
to  make  headway  against  prejudice.  If  ever  a  man 
has  forced  the  enemy's  gate  that  man  is  Conrad.  It 
is  an  odd  thing  that  both  in  England  and  America 
deep  originality  is  generally  appreciated  in  the  long 
run  though  it  may  not  be  much  understood.  And 
in  both  countries  people  are  now  becoming  "  aw^are  " 
of  Conrad,  although  he  is  too  massive  to  be  seen  clearly 
all  at  once.     It  is  always  thus. 

CBut  when  we  talk  of  Conrad's  popularity  (for  fame 

is  not  popularity)  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  there 

arc  other  reasons  that  militate  against  him;     He  is 

I  aloof  not  only  in  his  style  but  in  his  whole  manner  and 


CRITICS  AND  CONTEMPORARIES 


range  of  subject.     He  does  not  give  us  the  warm,  ( 
comfortable   feeling   of   an   Arnold   Bennett.     About  1 
him  there  is  not  that  placid,  unhurried  faculty  which  I 
makes  Bennett's  finest  novels  so  engrossing  and  so  easy   I 
to  read.  (Conrad  is  as  restless  as  the  sea.    And  his  sar- 
donic humour  hovers  over  his  work  with  a  suggestion, 
not  so  much  of  mockery  as  in  Anatole  France,  as  of 
disillusionment.     His  irony  can  be  severe  (as  in  "  Heart  ' 
of  Darkness  "),  or  it  can  be  a  form  of  pity  (as  in  "  Freya 
of  the  Seven  Islands"),  but  in  any  case  it  is' "un- 
English." )  And  furthermore,  his  psychology  is  partly 
developed,  in  disquieting  hints — in  that  resembling  the 
wonderful  psychology  of  Dostoievsky.     In  no  sense  is 
Conrad  a  "homely  "  writer.    He  knows  too  much  about 
"the  secret  of  hearts"  to  be  that,  even  had  he  placed  the 
scenes  of  his  books  in  the  valley  of  the  Thames  instead 
of  in  the  wild  places  of  dark  continents,  as  he  usually 
does.     And,  indeed,  when  he  choses  London  for  his 
scene,   as    in  The  Secret  Agent,  there   is  something 
mysterious  and  exotic  in  his  touch  which  throws  a 
film  of  sinister  romance  over  the  friendly  city. 

v^nd  then,  again,  Conrad  is  not  preoccupied  solely 
with  the  emotion  of  love.j  That,  generally  speaking, 
is  the  great  touchstone  of  popularity,  although, 
strangely  enough,  two  of  the  most  popular  of  modern 
writers,  Stevenson  and  Synge,  did  try  to  avoid  it  as 
much  as  possible.  It  is  a  sickness  that  has  affected 
nearly  every  writer  of  our  time  with  a  fatal  loss  of 
the  sense  of  proportion.  Of  course,  literature  has  < 
always  concerned  itself  with  passion,  but  it  is  only  * 
recently,  as  time  goes,  that  it  has  turned  it  into  a 
universally  morbid  disease.  Introspection  has  much 
to  answer  for  in  art  even  if  it  has  unbared  for  us  the 
last  shelters  of  egoism. 

Although  Conrad  is  an  artist  there  is  nothing  in 


10  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


him  of  that  pale  phantom  "  art  for  art's  sake."  After 
all,  he  is  absorbed  with  life,  and  his  choice  of  words 
and  his  descriptive  ability  are  part  of,  and  not  distinct 
from,  that  illusion  of  reality  which  he  is  intent  on 
creating.  You  will  not  find  in  him  the  corrupt 
simplicity  of  a  George  Moore  or  the  dashing  pose  of  a 
Cunninghame  Graham.  And  being  entirely  natural 
he  is  neither  purposely  hectic  like  Masefield,  nor  pur- 
posely vulgar  like  Kipling.  His  work,  like  the  work 
of  Henry  James,  is  essentially  dignified  and  quite 
untinged  by  the  pettiness  of  conscious  self-approval. 
That  is  not  to  deny  that  it  is  mannered.  In  its  own 
way  it  is  as  mannered  as  the  work  of  Stevenson.  But 
Stevenson  allowed  his  love  of  words  to  get  between 
him  and  his  object,  whereas  Conrad,  with  a  similar 
love  of  words,  realises  that  they  are  subordinate 
to  the  object  itself.  Both  Conrad  and  Henry  James 
have  a  passion  for  their  theme.  And  thus  their 
mannerisms  have  a  genuine  ring  and,  not  being  an 
aim  in  themselves,  merge  at  last,  together  with  all 
their  other  idiosyncrasies,  into  one  revelation  of  the 
"  grand  manner  " — a  term  for  expressing  real  emin- 
ence in  art. 

Although  a  writer  of  Conrad's  calibre  must  eventually 
have  been  recognised,  still  it  is  interesting  to  notice 
that  he  did  appear  at  a  rather  favourable  moment. 
Within  the  last  few  years  a  new  and  vitalising  energy 
has  been  breathed  into  English  literature,  which  had 
been  languishing  deplorably  since  the  early  '90's, 
since  the  end  of  the  aesthetes  and  the  dawn  of  the 
empire  builders.  Men  of  concrete  vigour  and  tireless 
production  are  now  the  leaders.  And  it  is  on  the  crest 
of  their  popularity  that  Conrad,  himself  outside  and 
beyond  their  ideals,  has  achieved  fame.  Let  me  make 
myself  clear.     He  could  not  have  gained  his  reputation 


CRITICS  AND  CONTEMPORARIES      11 


unless  he  had  been  what  he  is,  but  under  the  anemic 
conditions  of  twenty  years  ago  he  could  hardly  have 
gained  it  at  all.  A  wave  of  sound  common  sense  has 
blown  the  cobwebs  out  of  English  literature— (that 
it  has  blown  in  other  obnoxious  things  in  their  stead 
is  not  our  business  here).  Conrad  could  only  be 
understood  in  a  society  where  reality  had  some  sort 
of  a  hold. 

But  I  will  venture  the  remark  that  it  is  Stevenson, 
rather  than  the  contributors  to  The  Yellow  Book  or 
The  National  Observer,  who  has  poisoned  our  English 
critical  intelligence  for  a  decade.  For  Stevenson's 
appeal  is  more  cunning.  He  is  neither  unhealthy  nor 
exaggerated  and  he  does  not  lay  himself  open  to  ridicule 
or  hatred.  Our  error  has  been  in  taking  him  too 
seriously.  Why  should  this  charming  light-weight 
be  considered  a  demi-god  ?  His  mind  was  intelligent, 
humane,  but  not  particularly  distinguished,  and  his 
style  was  a  transparent  and  empty  mannerism.  But 
his  personality  was  attractive  and  his  appeal  has  the 
glitter  of  romance.  And  the  result  of  it  all  is  really 
disastrous.  In  innumerable  minds  he  is  now  the  model 
of  what  an  artist  should  be.  And  by  this  standard 
the  great  masters  are  judged  and  found  wanting. 
Stevenson  sailed  delightfully  over  the  surface,  little 
guessing  of  the  tragic  depths  waiting  to  be  plumbed 
by  men  like  Conrad. 

Well,  this  is  something  of  a  digression,  but  it  may 
serve  to  show  one  of  the  reasons  why  such  a  writer 
as  Conrad  finds  himself,  so  to  speak,  on  virgin  soil  in 
England.  People  take  a  long  time  to  admit  that 
there  are  two  sides  to  a  question  and  a  still  longer  to 
admit  that  the  second  side  may  be  the  correct  one. 
And  even  if  they  allow  Conrad  to  be  an  artist,  his 
art  may  seem  to  them  almost  purposeless.     ReaUsm' 


12  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


uncoloured  by  erotic  emotion  appears  to  belie  its 
title.  In  England  one  allows  for  the  attenuated 
mysticism  of  a  W.  B.  Yeats  or  a  Rabindranath  Tagore, 
and  one  allows  for  the  frank  sensuality  of  an  H.  G. 
Wells  or  a  D.  H.  Lawrence,  but  one  looks  askance  at 
an  austere  morality  that  is  founded  neither  on  the 
life  of  dreams  nor  on  the  restraint  of  the  senses.  That 
remark  of  Giorgio  Viola's  at  the  end  of  Nostromo, 
when  everything  is  shattering  about  his  head,  "  Si — 
duty,"  falls  upon  inattentive  ears.  Few  of  us  can  even 
appreciate  the  incorruptibility  of  the  old  Garibaldino. 
lUit  to  Conrad  duty  is  the  basis  not  only  of  existence 
but  of  art  itself.  I  state  this  with  no  moraHsing 
significance — Conrad's  work  is  built  upon  no  idea 
other  than  that  of  reality.  But  to  him  sincerity, 
duty,  self-command  are  essential  to  reality.  Without 
them  there  is  only  the  chaos  of  anarchy.  That  is 
why  so  much  modern  literature  is  worthless — because, 
in  its  very  essence,  it  is  insincere  and  consequently 
anarchic.  For  there  is  as  much  anarchy  in  the  banal 
as  in  Post-Impressionism. 

I  have  no  wish,  in  this  chapter,  to  be  led  into  a  dis- 
cussion of  Conrad's  work  or  point  of  view.  I  just  put 
forward  these  instances  to  try  to  account,  in  part, 
for  his  lack  of  wider  and  deeper  appreciation.  There 
are  yet  other  causes  no  doubt.  A  certain  indirectness 
in  his  manner  of  narration  must  explain  a  good  deal, 
and  a  monotonous  richness  of  language  in  his  earlier 
work  has  certainly  repelled  many.  The  popular  idea 
of  Conrad  as  a  "  picturesque  "  writer  is  unfortunate, 
because  people  at  once  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
is  that  and  nothing  more.  In  the  ordinary  way  there 
is  not  much  critical  discrimination  in  England  and 
one  false  cry  may  help  or  retard  a  man's  reputation 
for  years.     Still,  why  should  I  labour  a  subject  that 


CRITICS  AND  CONTEMPORARIES      13 

will  soon  be  merely  historical  ?  For  I  am  sure  that 
Conrad's  day  is  at  hand  and  that  once  his  sun  has 
risen  it  will  not  set. 

I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  he  will  ever  be  popular. 
His  work  is  not  cast  in  that  mould.  But  I  mean  that 
he  will  be  genuinely  revered.  The  popular  appeal 
is  not  necessarily  debased  and  Conrad's  work  loses 
something  by  not  possessing  it.  It  loses  a  certain 
universal  significance  which  is  the  birthright  of  those 
artists,  such  artists  as  Shakespeare,  or  Turgenev, 
or  even  Maupassant,  who  have  also  been  popular. 
And  it  must  be  understood  that  by  artists  I  mean 
realists.  In  my  opinion  realists  are  the  only  true  artists 
in  fiction.  And  I  do  not  mean  the  realism  of  a  Zola 
which  is  coarseness  or  the  realism  of  a  Dickens  which 
is  caricature — I  mean,  essentially,  the  realism  of  a 
writer  like  Turgenev  or  Conrad,  the  realism,  in  fact, 
of  typical  and  distinguished  reality.  Anthony 
Trollope,  it  is  true,  is  a  realist,  but  he  has  obviously 
a  second  rate  intelligence  and  therefore  his  creations 
are  wanting  in  the  highest  actuality.  They  are  not 
imagined  with  the  passionate  nuances  of  real  life. 
So  when  I  say  that  Conrad  lacks  the  popular  appeal 
I  am  not  really  meaning  the  appeal  of  a  man  like 
Dickens  (great  genius  though  he  is),  but  rather  the 
appeal  of  a  man  of  his  own  genre  such  as  Turgenev. 

There  is  something  exalted  in  Conrad's  creations  i 
which  will  for  ever  keep  them  slightly  apart  from  wide-  j 
spread  sympathy.  We  must  grasp  that  when  com- 
paring him  with  his  contemporaries,  some  of  whom 
have  more  than  a  touch  of  this  intimate,  universal 
appeal.  In  a  sense  it  is  easier  to  get  en  rapport  with 
the  people  of  Gissing  or  Bennett  than  with  the  people 
of  Conrad.  This  is  partly  for  two  reasons.  Firstly, 
they  have  a  wider  general  interest,  and  secondly  they 


iSE] 


14  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


lack  just  that  touch  of  distinction  which  is  inherent 
in  the  projections  of  a  mind  as  subtly  reserved  as 
Conrad's.  About  all  Conrad's  work  there  is  a  kind 
of  aristocratic  flavour  which  has  nothing  directly  to 
do  with  the  work  itself.  Just  consider  the  difference 
between  his  view  of  the  East  and  Kipling's  view. 
There  is  something  sublime  about  one  and  something 
cockney  about  the  other.  Comad  is  a  philosopher 
and  Kipling  is  an  observer.  Both  have  sanity  (that 
uncommon  possession),  both  know  their  subject, 
both  show  literary  genius — and  yet  no  two  men  could 
be  further  apart .  For  Conrad  has  his  eye  upon  destiny, 
whereas  Kipling  has  his  eye  upon  Simla  society. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  unfairness  in  this 
comparison — as  there  is  in  all  such  comparisons. 
One  sets  out  to  prove  a  point  and  one  proves  it — but 
other  people  may  not  agree  that  the  point  is  w^orth 
proving  or  that  it  has,  indeed,  been  fairly  proved. 
On  certain  formulas  one  can  demonstrate  that  almost 
anyone  is  either  great  or  negligible.  Fortunately 
unbacked  ex  parte  statements  do  not  carry  conviction. 
I  say  all  this  because  I  am  unwilling  that  people  should 
tliink  that  I  am  simply  putting  Conrad  on  a  pinnacle. 
I  quite  realise  Conrad's  defects  and  I  quite  realise 
other  people's  merits.  But  perfection  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  criterion  of  genius  and  the  finest  writers  may 
be  the  easiest  to  criticise.  What  differentiates  Conrad 
from  nearly  all  his  contemporaries  is  the  quality  of 
greatness.  He  is  on  a  different  plane,  as  it  were,  and 
therefore  comparisons  are  almost  certain  to  miss  the 
real  point.  I  present  this  here  as  an  opinion,  but  in 
the  following  pages  I  hope  to  demonstrate  it  as  a 
truth. 


CHAPTER  II 
conrad's  biography  and  autobiographical 

BOOKS 

In  this  chapter  I  mean  to  give,  first  of  all,  in  a  per- 
fectly concise  and  colourless  form,  the  salient  facts 
of  Conrad's  life  up  to  the  time  of  his  leaving  the  sea, 
and  then  I  mean  to  examine  in  a  more  literary  and 
romantic  sense  his  two  books  of  recollections,  So7ne 
Reminiscences  and  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea.  And  I 
hope  to  throw  some  light  on  the  autobiographical 
basis  of  many  of  Conrad's  stories.  But  I  would  like 
to  say,  straight  off,  that  this  chapter  will  not  be  of 
much  value  to  the  critic  for,  like  the  one  that  follows 
it,  it  is  informative  rather  than  critical.  That  stands 
to  reason. 

Teodor  Jozef  Konrad  Korzeniowski  was  born  in  the 
Ukraine  in  the  South  of  Poland  on  6th  December  1S57. 
In  1861  he  removed  to  Warsaw  with  his  parents,  and 
in  1862  his  father,  who  had  been  deeply  implicated 
in  the  last  Polish  rebellion,  was  banished  to  Vologda 
by  the  Russian  government.  His  wife  and  son  followed 
him  into  exile.  In  1865  Conrad's  mother  died  and  his 
father  sent  him  back  to  the  Ukraine  to  stay  with  his 
maternal  uncle  (who  is  spoken  of  with  such  affectionate 
regard  in  Some  Reminiscences),  where  he  remained  for 
five  years.  That  was  the  happiest  period  of  Conrad's 
childhood — this  home-life  of  the  country  consciously 
enjoyed  and  revelled  in.  Conrad's  first  recollection 
of  public  matters  was  the  liberation  of  the  serfs,  on  the 


16  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


committee  of  which  his  uncle  was  one  of  the  leading 
spirits.  In  1869  Conrad's  father  was  freed  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  too  ill  to  be  dangerous  any  longer.  He 
carried  off  his  son  to  Cracow,  the  old  PoUsh  capital, 
and  died  there  in  1870.  Conrad  was  sent  to  the  gymna- 
sium of  St  Anne,  the  foremost  pubHc  school  of  the  city. 
There  he  came  under  the  care  of  a  tutor  who  influenced 
him  profoundly  and  who,  according  to  Some  Remini- 
sce}: ccs,  was  a  man  of  remarkable  intuition.  He  was 
put  forward  by  the  relations  to  counteract  Conrad's 
strange  and  inborn  desire  for  a  sea-life,  but  after  some 
earnest  and  futile  talks  he  realised  that  his  efforts  would 
be  useless  and  ceased  to  trouble  the  boy.  Conrad's 
decision  was,  indeed,  final.  Brought  up  in  a  country 
without  a  coast,  in  a  society  v/here  he  saw  no  English 
(though  he  knew  some  of  the  finest  English  literature 
from  translations  by  his  father),  he  had  yet  resolved 
that  he  would  be  an  English  seaman  of  the  merchant 
service.  And  against  all  obstacles  he  carried  out  his 
plan.  It  was  in  1874  that  he  went  to  sea.  Marseilles 
was  his  "  jumping-off  ground,"  but  it  was  some  years 
before  he  was  able  to  sail  under  the  Red  Ensign.  For 
it  was  not  till  three  years  later  that  he  set  foot  in 
l^ngland.  Before  that  he  had  some  adventures  in 
the  Mediterranean  and  had  twice  been  to  the  West 
Indies.  He  calls  this  his  wild  oats  sowing  period. 
In  May  1878  he  landed  at  Lowestoft  and  first  touched 
I'^nglish  soil.  At  that  time  he  did  not  know  a  word  of 
English,  but  he  learnt  it  rapidly,  being  helped  in  a 
general  sense  to  some  extent,  by  a  local  boat- 
builder  who  understood  French.  For  five  months 
he  was  on  board  a  Lowestoft  coaster.  The  Skimmer  of 
the  Seas,  that  traded  between  that  port  and  Newcastle. 
In  October  1878  he  joined  the  Duke  of  Sutherland, 
bound  for  Australia,  as  ordinary  seaman.     (Of  eighteen 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    11 

men  before  the  mast  all  were  English  save  Conrad, 
a  Norwegian,  two  Americans,  and  a  St  Kitts  negro 
called  James  Wait — a  name  used  just  twenty  years 
later  for  the  negro  in  The  Nigger  of  the  "Narcissus.") 
From  now  onwards  till  1894,  when  he  finally  left 
the  sea,  Conrad's  life  was  the'  usual  life  of  a  deep- 
water  seaman.  He  passed  for  second  mate  in 
1879  and  became  a  Master  in  the  English  Merchant 
Service  in  the  year  of  his  naturalisation  in  1884.  In 
1890  and  again  in  1894  (the  year  before  his  uncle's 
death)  he  revisited  the  Ukraine.  But  I  need  not  con- 
tinue such  details.  I  have  only  a  short  space  at  my 
disposal  and,  that  being  so,  I  think  I  cannot  give  a 
better  glimpse  of  Conrad's  existence  during  all  these 
years  than  by  jotting  down,  in  order,  a  rough  list  of  the 
ships  he  served  in,  either  as  officer  or  in  command, 
from  1880  till  1894.  This  is  a  list  I  scribbled  from 
Conrad's  dictation,  and  against  each  name  he  has 
added  the  titles  of  those  stories  of  his  which  the 
different  ships  suggest.  Of  course  this  must  be  taken 
for  what  it  is  worth — a  single  episode,  perhaps  only  a 
single  name,  in  a  story  may  be  associated  with  a  cer- 
tain ship,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  the  whole  story  may 
be  strongly  autobiographical  and  reminiscent.  And 
then,  again,  different  memories  are  sometimes  welded 
together  into  one  story.  In  Chance,  for  instance,  there 
is  an  episode  connected  with  the  Riversdale  and 
another  connected  with  the  Torrens.  However,  here  is 
the  list :  I  give  the  ships,  and  then,  in  brackets,  I  give 
the  stories  they  individually  call  up  in  Conrad's  mind. 

Loch-Etive  .  .   [The  Mirror  of  the  Sea). 

Palestine     .  .    ("Youth"). 

Riversdale   .  .   [The     Mirror     of     the     Sea; 

Chance). 


18 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Narcissus 


S.S.  John  P.  Best 
Tilkhurst     . 
Falconhurst 
Highland  Forest 

S.S.  Vidar 


Otago 


S.S.  Roi  dc  Beiges 


Torrens 


S.S.  Adowa 


of     the    "  Nar- 
The  Mirror  of  the 


{The  Nigger 
cissiis  "  ; 
Sea). 

(''Typhoon"). 

[The  Mirror  of  the  Sea). 

[The  Mirror  of  the  Sea). 

[The  Mirror  of  the  Sea). 

(All  the  Malay  books  ;  ''Ty- 
phoon" ;  Some  Reminis- 
cences). 

("Falk";  'Twixt  Land  and 
Sea  ;  The  Mirror  oj  the  Sea  ; 
Some  Reminiscences) . 

("An  Outpost  of  Progress"; 
"  Heart  of  Darkness  "). 

(Chance ;  The  Mirror  of  the 
Sea;  Some  Reminiscences). 

(Some  Reminiscences) . 


In  1894,  as  I  say,  Conrad  finally  left  the  sea.  He 
had  never  fully  recovered  from  a  severe  fever  that  had 
invalided  him  from  the  Congo  and  his  health  was  now 
more  or  less  broken.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
himself  (he  had  still  some  idea  of  going  to  sea  again),  but, 
almost  as  an  afterthought,  he  sent  in  to  Fisher  Unwin  the 
novel  which  he  had  begun  about  1889  and  which  he 
had  completed  in  odd  moments — the  novel  of  Almayer's 
Folly.  After  waiting  for  three  or  four  months  he  heard, 
to  his  intense  surprise,  that  it  was  accepted  (Edward 
Garnett,  as  reader,  was  responsible)  and  from  hence- 
forward his  life  is  mainly  the  history  of  his  books, 
and  does  not  concern  us.  I  will  just  add  that  he 
married  in  1896  and  has  since  lived  mostly  in  Kent 
where  he  still  resides.  The  turmoil  of  a  creator's 
existence  has  no  outward  adventure  save  the  merit 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  19 


and  reception  of  his  creations,  and  in  that  (amongst 
other  things)  it  differs  from  the  wild  and  vigorous  hfe 
of  the  sea.  For  long  Conrad  was  only  the  novelist 
of  a  small  following  (it  was  a  landmark  in  his  career 
when  Henley  accepted  The  Nigger  of  the  '*  Narcissus  " 
for  The  New  Review  in  1897),  but,  as  everyone  knows, 
that  following  has  widened  and  widened  till  it  now 
represents  the  whole  intellectual  world. 

So  here  I  will  close  my  short  biography  of  Joseph 
Conrad,  merely  remarking  that  what  I  do  give  is 
accurate  and  may  serve  to  straighten  out  the  tangle 
for  future  writers.  For  a  mist  gathers  about  fam.ous 
men's  lives  just  as  surely  as  it  gathers  about  their 
achievements.  Here,  in  these  few  pages  are  all  the 
essential  facts  up  to  a  period  beyond  which  it  v/ould  be 
impertinent  to  inquire.  And  now  let  me  speak  of  his 
autobiographical  works,  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  and 
Some  Reminiscences. 

Of  Conrad's  two  books  of  memories  and  impressions. 
The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  (1906)  is  the  first.  It  may  be 
described  as  a  sort  of  prose-poem  about  the  sea,  and  a 
poem  founded  not  alone  upon  flights  of  imagery  but 
upon  profound  realism  and  knowledge  of  detail.  Its 
basis  of  personal  reminiscence  expands  in  the  rare 
qualities  of  poetry  and  romance.  The  Mirror  of  the 
Sea  is  the  most  eloquent  of  all  Conrad's  books.  It  has 
something  of  the  grave  and  exalted  eloquence  oi Paradise 
Lost,  but  there  is  in  it,  too,  a  passion  of  affection  and 
regret  very  different  from  the  spirit  in  which  Milton 
wrote.  In  a  sense  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  is  Conrad's 
most  intimate  and  revealing  book,  because  the  sea 
is  the  one  thing  about  which  his  enthusiasm  is  for  ever 
undimmed  by  his  pessimistic  philosophy.  Sentiment 
rather  than  reason  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  The  Mirror 
of  the  Sea.     In  this  work  of  romance  and  sea- wisdom. 


20  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


of  hard  fact  and  of  warm  colour,  of  the  chance  recol- 
lections of  old  adventure  and  association  is  enshrined 
tlie  true  allegiance  of  a  life-time.  Its  high  and  glowing 
eloquence  is  an  offering  to  the  deep,  charmed  waters. 
For  the  sea  has  been  the  most  powerful,  the  most 
urgent  iriflucnce  in  Conrad's  life.  It  has  tinged  his 
art  with  the  brilliance,  with  the  sombre  glory  of  its 
moods,  it  has  fired  his  imagination  with  its  fickle 
repose  and  mighty  upheavals.  And  Conrad's  chief 
faith  in  humanity  seems  to  have  arisen  from  contact 
with  the  sea.  Let  me  explain  my  meaning  in  his 
own  words  : — 

Having  matured  in  the  surroundings  and  under  the 
special  conditions  of  sea-life,  I  have  a  special  piety  towards 
that  form  of  my  past ;  for  its  impressions  were  vivid,  its 
appeal  direct,  its  demands  such  as  could  be  responded  to 
with  the  natural  elation  of  youth  and  strength  equal  to  the 
call.  There  was  nothing  in  them  to  perplex  a  young  con- 
science. Having  broken  away  from  my  origins  under  a 
storm  of  blame  from  every  quarter  which  had  the  merest 
shadow  of  right  to  voice  an  opinion,  removed  by  great  dis- 
tances from  such  natural  affections  as  were  still  left  to  me, 
and  even  estranged,  in  a  measure,  from  them  by  the  totally 
unintelligible  character  of  the  life  which  had  seduced  me  so 
mysteriously  from  my  allegiance,  I  may  safely  say  that 
through  the  blind  force  of  circumstances  the  sea  was  to  be 
all  my  world  and  the  merchant  service  my  only  home  for  a 
long  succession  of  years.  No  wonder  then  that  in  my  two 
exclusively  sea  books,  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  and 
The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  (and  in  the  few  short  sea  stories  like 
Youth  and  Typhoon),  I  have  tried  with  an  almost  filial  regard 
to  render  the  vibration  of  life  in  the  great  world  of  waters, 
in  the  hearts  of  the  simple  men  who  have  for  ages  traversed 
its  solitudes,  and  also  that  something  sentient  which  seems 
to  dwell  in  ships— the  creatures  of  their  hands  and  the 
objects  of  their  care.     {Some  Reminiscences,  pp.  12-3.) 

These,  surely,  are  the  words  of  a  supreme  devotion. 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  21 


The  scheme  of  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,  apparently 
simple,  is  in  fact  subtle  with  the  cross-currents 
of  fact  and  fancy  and  with  Conrad's  strange  and 
misleading  method  of  narration.  In  its  two  realms 
it  might  almost  remind  one  of  Lewis  Carroll's  Sylvie 
and  Bruno — though  in  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,  the  two 
realms  are  but  two  aspects  of  the  same  underlying 
emotion — the  emotion  of  fidelity  and  love.  The  book 
deals  with  the  sea  in  all  its  shades  of  storm  and  calm, 
in  its  historical  and  mystical  significance,  and  in  its 
influence  upon  the  ujisophisticated  hearts  of  seamen. 
Long  conversations  intersperse  with  visions  and  re- 
collection of  strange  or  familiar  waters.  There  are 
chapters  on  landfalls  and  departures,  on  Conrad's 
own  experiences  on  board  the  smuggling  balancelle 
Tremolino  in  the  Mediterranean  (a  curious  and  fascinat- 
ing chapter  about  his  early  days  at  sea),  on  Nelson  and 
the  spirit  he  inculcated,  and  on  many  another  topic 
of  the  sea.  And  throughout  the  book  the  language 
is  beautiful  with  the  soft  cadence,  with  the  music, 
with  the  reserve  force  of  tjie  ocean  itself.  Let  me  give 
three  short  passages  to  represent  the  tone  of  the  whole 
work  : — 

Nobody  ever  comes  back  from  a  '^  missing  "  ship  to  tell 
how  hard  was  the  death  of  the  craft,  and  how  sudden  and 
overwhelming  the  last  anguish  of  her  men.  Nobody  can  say 
Vith  what  thoughts,  with  what  regrets,  with  what  words  on 
'their  lips  they  died.     But  there  is  something  fine  in  the 

«iden  passing  away  of  these  hearts  from  the  extremity  of 
fcggle  and  stress  and  tremendous  uproar — from  the  vast, 
restful  rage  of  the  surface  to  the  profound  peace  of  the 
depths,  sleeping  untroubled  since  the  beginning  of  ages. 
{The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,  p.  94.) 

For  a  moment  the  succession  of  silky  undulations  ran 
on  innocently.  I  saw  each  of  them  swell  up  the  misty  line 
of  the  horizon,  far,  far  away  beyond  the  derelict  brig,  and  the 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


next  moment,  with  a  slight  friendly  toss  of  our  boat,  it  had 
passed  under  us  and  was  gone.  The  lulling  cadence  of  the 
rise  and  fall,  the  invariable  gentleness  of  this  irresistible 
force,  the  great  charm  of  the  deep  waters,  warmed  my 
breast  deliciously,  like  th*^  subtle  poison  of  a  love-potion. 
But  all  this  lasted  only  a  few  soothing  seconds  before  I  jumped 
up  too,  making  the  boat  roll  like  the  veriest  land-lubber. 
(The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,  p.  227.) 

Like  a  subtle  and  mysterious  elixir  poured  into  the 
perishable  clay  of  successive  generations,  it  grows  in  truth, 
splendour,  and  potency  with  the  march  of  ages.  In  its  in- 
corruptible flow  all  round  the  globe  of  the  earth  it  preserves 
from  the  decay  and  forgetfulness  of  death  the  greatness  of 
our  great  men,  and  amongst  them  the  passionate  and  gentle 
greatness  of  Nelson,  the  nature  of  whose  genius  was,  on  the 
faith  of  a  brave  seaman  and  distinguished  Admiral,  such  as 
to  "  Exalt  the  glory  of  our  nation."  {The  Mirror  of  the  Sea, 
p.  306.) 

Some  Reminiscences  (1912)  followed  six  years  later. 
This  is  more  eminently  a  genuine  work  of  autobiography 
than  is  The  Mirror  of  tJie  Sea,  but  even  so  it  will  mislead 
a  great  many  people  who  go  to  it  for  facts.  For 
it  is  as  much  the  story  of  Mr  Nicholas  B.'s  life 
and  of  his  uncle's  life  as  of  Conrad's  own ;  and 
even  of.  himself  it  talks  with  but  fragmentary 
voice,  leaving  him,  so  to  speak,  upon  the  threshold 
of  his  first  voyage.  Certainly  there  are  glimpses 
of  the  later  Conrad,  of  him  as  ship's  officer,  for 
instance,  and  even  of  him  as  a  guest  at  his  uncle's 
Polish  house  in  later  years,  but  they  flash  upon  the 
page  only  to  tantalise.  For  the  artistically  erratic 
and  reminiscent  form  of  biography  can  be  seen  in 
this  book  in  its  absolute  perfection.  You  catch  sight 
of  some  new  fact  almost  as  Macbeth  caught  a  sight  of 
the  dagger. 

An  exaggeration,  of  course,  but  let  it  pass.     For 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  23 


Some  Reminiscences  was  not  meant  to  be  a  mine  of 
facts.  No,  it  was  conceived  in  something  of  the  same 
mood  as  was  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea — not  exactly  in 
that  mood  of  lyrical  exultation,  but  in  a  mood  of  casual, 
sweet,  and  drawn-out  remembrance.  It  is  a  book  of 
childhood,  stirred  with  the  first  ripples  of  a  lasting 
passion — the  passion  of  the  sea — and  overlaid  with 
the  adventurous  and  pensive  recollections  of  a  man. 
Its  whole  formation  points  to  a  mood  of  lingering 
memory.  Indeed,  it  is  in  that,  especially,  that  it 
resembles  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea.  Of  course,  there  is 
a  great  artistic  finesse  hidden  in  this  air  of  casual 
browsing.  Both  of  these  books  present  Conrad's 
literary  skill  at  its  nicest  balance.  Their  parts  are 
fitted  together  with  the  precision  and  delicacy  of  a  com- 
plicated puzzle.  But  we  should  realise  that  the  art 
is  at  least  as  much  moulded  to  the  mood  as  the  mood 
is  conjured  up  for  the  benefit  of  the  art.  For  these  are 
the  works  of  a  true  artist,  of  an  artist  whose  mind 
and  technique  would  be  averse  to  the  obvious  form 
of  bald  biographical  statement.  Besides,  Conrad's 
purpose  in  them  is  rather  to  create  an  atmosphere  than 
to  satisfy  curiosity.  The  real  artist  is  reticent  about 
himself,  for  impersonality  is  rooted  in  his  whole  idea 
of  art.  Indeed,  he  cannot  reveal  himself  save  through 
the  medium  of  his  work. 

Some  Reminiscences  contains  much  of  Conrad's 
most  finished  prose.  Less  eloquent  than  The  Mirror 
of  the  Sea,  it  is  more  urbane  and  more  closely  knit. 
His  descriptions  of  people  such  as  his  uncle,  his  tutor, 
and  the  original  of  Almayer,  are  telling  in  the  accuracy 
and  detail  of  the  portraits,  and  the  whole  book  is  en- 
livened by  the  firm  lightness  of  his  touch.  Moreover, 
it  contains  passages  of  exceptional  splendour.  I  will 
quote  but  one,  the  last  in  the  book,  the  description 


24  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

of  how  Conrad  first  saw,  outside  the  harbour  of  Mar- 
seilles, the  Red  Ensign  floating  from  the  mast  of  an 
English  ship.     It  is  most  beautiful : — 

Her  head  swung  a  little  to  the  west,  pointing  towards 
the  miniature  lighthouse  of  the  Jolliette  breakwater,  far  away 
there,  hardly  distinguishable  against  the  land.  The  dinghy 
danced  a  squashy,  splashy  jig  in  the  wash  of  the  wake  and 
turning  in  my  seat  I  followed  the  James  Wesioll  with  my 
eyes.  Before  she  had  gone  in  a  quarter  of  a  mile  she  hoisted 
her  flag  as  the  harbour  regulations  prescribe  for  arriving  and 
departing  ships.  I  saw  it  suddenly  flicker  and  stream  out 
on  the  flagstaff.  The  Red  Ensign  !  In  the  pellucid,  colour- 
less atmo?5phere  bathing  the  drab  and  grey  masses  of  that 
southern  land,  the  livid  islets,  the  sea  of  pale  glassy  blue 
under  the  pale  glassy  sky  of  that  cold  sunrise,  it  was  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach  the  only  spot  of  ardent  colour — flame- 
like, intense,  and  presently  as  minute  as  the  tiny  red  spark 
the  concentrated  reflection  of  a  great  fire  kindles  in  the  clear 
heart  of  a  globe  of  crystal.  The  Red  Ensign — the  symbolic, 
protecting  warm  bit  of  bunting  flung  wide  upon  the  seas, 
and  destined  for  so  many  years  to  be  the  only  roof  over  my 
head.     (Some  Reminiscences,  p.  236-7.) 

These  two  books  are  Conrad's  only  direct  contribu- 
tions to  the  history  of  his  autobiography.  And,  as 
I  said  before,  they  are  not  strictly  autobiographical 
at  all.  To  create  the  atmosphere  of  youth  and  of 
the  sea,  to  summon  up  the  illusions  of  a  vanished  time, 
to  pay  a  debt  of  gratitude  and  love,  these  appear  tp^ 
be  the  mainsprings  of  their  energy  and  enthusiasm^ 
The  best  phases  of  Conrad's  manner  can  be  studi^ 
in  them  to  perfection.  For  the  romantic  imagery  of 
The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  is  as  typical  of  the  earlier  Conrad 
as  the  faint  and  rounded  irony  of  Some  Reminiscences 
is  typical  of  the  later  Conrad.  They  are  as  surely  his 
testament  as  are  the  Confessions  the  testament  of 
Rousseau.     But  what  a  gulf  of  difference  separates 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  25 

the  two  men  1  For  it  is  in  such  things,  above  all, 
that  the  secret  character  reveals  itself.  Who,  for 
instance,  would  not  respect  Evelyn  more  than  Pepys, 
and  like  Pepys  more  than  Evelyn  ?  And  Conrad, 
in  his  two  books  of  memories,  stands  before  us  in  the 
clear  light  of  day.  He  may  tell  us  little  about  himself 
in  one  way,  in  the  material  way,  but  in  another  he 
tells  us  much.  To  read  these  books  sympathetically 
is  to  understand  Conrad's  attitude  towards  life  and 
art.  His  works  should  never  again  be  mysterious  to 
us,  as  the  works  of  the  few  men  of  real  temperamental 
genius  are  so  apt  to  be.  No,  these  two  books  of  J 
Conrad's  are  the  true  *'  open  sesame  "  to  his  novels  j 
and  stories.  In  the  complete  rectitude  and  sincerity 
of  his  art  he  never  allows  imagination  to  rob  him  for 
more  than  a  moment  of  his  hold  upon  the  earth. 

Indeed,  as  I  said  before,  many  of  his  stories  are 
actually  founded  upon  incidents  of  his  own  career. 
That  is  partly  why  they  possess,  against  their  romantic 
background,  such  an  air  of  invincible  reality.  They 
are  the  products  of  an  enormously  active  and  dramatic 
memory,  a  memory  whose  main  outline  is  filled  in  and 
amplified  by  a  very  sure  artistic  grasp.  Conrad's 
philosophy  and  romance  may  colour  all  his  work 
but  they  never  distort  it.  For  they  only  exist  to  the  1 
point  of  making  his  realism  more  dramatic.  His  own  j 
reminiscences  are  the  foundation  of  his  stories — some- 
times obviously,  sometimes  so  subtly  that  no  exact 
relationship  could  be  established.  For  I  think  one 
does  feel  that  almost  all  the  characters  in  Conrad, 
and  a  great  proportion  of  the  events,  have  definite 
prototypes — if  it  be  only  in  embryo.  And  the  more 
one  studies  these  two  autobiographical  books  the  more 
one  feels  this.  For  he  shows  us  admittedly  real  people, 
admittedly  real  incidents  precisely  as  he  shows  us  the 


26  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

people  and  incidents  of  imagination.  His  is  the  art, 
which,  at  its  best,  conceals  the  effort  in  the  con- 
summate ease  and  realism  of  his  manner.  And,  con- 
sequently, in  the  two  books  where  he  is  recounting 
actual  adventures  there  is  neither  a  greater  nor  a 
lesser  air  of  reality  than  in  his  stories  and  novels.  For 
the  realism  of  the  former  is  toned  down  by  art  and  the 
art  of  the  latter  is  saturated  with  reahsm. 

I  cannot  end  this  chapter  without  commenting  on 
the  astonishing  series  of  events  that  led  a  PoHsh  boy 
to  enter  the  British  Merchant  Service,  and  a  master 
mariner  to  become  a  novelist.  It  seems  quite  incom- 
prehensible— one  of  these  marvellous  "  flukes  "  that 
fate  keeps  up  its  sleeve  for  a  hundred  years  and  then 
flings  in  our  face.  I  will  not  enlarge :  it  is  more  astound- 
ing as  a  mere  fact  than  any  embroidery  could  make  it. 
It  is,  indeed,  strangely  appropriate  that  the  man  who 
has  led  one  of  the  most  wandering  and  one  of  the 
hardest  lives  of  our  time  should  have  written  the  most 
realistically-romantic  novels  of  our  age. 


CHAPTER  III 

conrad's  novels  and  stories 

Let  me  say  at  once  that  this  chapter,  Hke  the  previous 
one,  is  of  small  critical  importance  and  will  not  interest 
real  students  of  Conrad.  They  are  advised  not  to  read 
it.  It  is,  as  it  were,  spade-work — rather  dull  but  of 
a  certain  value.  For  I  think  it  best,  before  starting 
upon  a  reasoned  examination  of  Conrad's  art,  to  give 
a  short  summary  of  all  his  published  novels  and  stories. 
(I  say  "  published,"  because  Mr  Conrad  has  completed 
another  novel  of  the  East  which  has  not  yet  appeared, 
and  also  because  there  are  about  half  a  dozen  short 
stories  of  his  which  have  been  issued  serially  but  have 
not  as  yet  been  gathered  into  a  volume.  But  there  is 
nothing  to  be  gained  from  criticising  work  that  cannot 
easily  be  consulted.)  So  that  this  chapter  must  be 
considered  more  explanatory  than  critical.  And  yet 
even  in  my  summaries  I  present  the  spirit  rather  than 
the  story — they  are  not  complete,  they  only  suggest 
the  salient  ideas.  Conrad's  books  are  not  sufficiently 
well  known  for  one  to  assume  a  general  knowledge 
of  them  in  every  reader,  and  as  I  shall  constantly 
have  to  refer  to  them  it  does  seem  wiser  to  have  them 
definitely  and  concisely  before  our  eyes  once  and  for 
all.  Of  course  an  objection  may  well  be  raised  to 
the  method  of  this  book  as  a  whole  ;  and,  in  the 
ordinary  course,  I  agree  that  a  more  valuable  study 
might  be  produced  by  devoting  a  separate  chapter 
to  each  one  of  Conrad's  books  rather  than  by  dwelling 


28  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

on  the  distinct  phases  of  his  work.  No  one  can  see 
more  clearly  than  I  do  the  danger  of  discussing  an 
author's  qualities  in  any  other  way  but  as  part  of  a 
criticism  of  individual  books — the  books  not  being 
a  mere  casket  containing  various  mental  attributes  but 
themselves  the  living  body — but  I  have  decided  on 
the  course  I  have  because  I  want  to  prove  certain 
things  about  Conrad  which  will  pave  the  road  to  a 
more  minute  study  of  his  books.  I  do  not  lose  sight 
of  the  fact  that,  though  individual  excellencies  may 
make  a  novelist  remarkable,  it  is  only  by  the  continuity 
of  the  completed  structure  that  he  can  be  judged  as 
an  artist — I  do  not  lose  sight  of  that  fact  either  in 
theory  or  in  practice.  For  this  book  is  not  a  mere 
introduction  to  Conrad,  though,  being  a  pioneer  book, 
I  have  had  to  lay  emphasis  on  things  that  in  future 
may  be  taken  for  granted  and  to  treat  his  work,  con- 
sequently, in  a  manner  that  is  not  the  ideally  critical 
one.  Some  day  Conrad  may  have  a  critic  who  will 
build  up  a  vast  edifice  from  the  subtle  dissection  of 
a  few  novels  ;  but  for  me  it  is  enough  to  prove  that 
he  is  a  writer  worthy  of  such  a  critic. 

This,  therefore,  must  be  my  excuse  for  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  whole  book  and  for  the  drawn-out 
simplicity  of  this  special  chapter. 

Up  to  the  present  Conrad  has  pubhshed  ten  novels 
(two  of  them  in  collaboration  with  Ford  Madox 
Hueffer)  and  five  volumes  of  stories.  I  will  examine 
his  own  novels  to  begin  with. 

His  first  book  is  Almayer's  Folly  (1895).  This 
"  story  of  an  Eastern  River  "  is  one  of  illusion,  weariness, 
and  irresistible  passion.  Almayer  is  the  white  trader, 
the  only  white  trader,  of  Sambir,  a  distant  and  obscure 


CONilAD^S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     29 

settlement  up  the  river  Pantai  of  an  island  in  the  Dutch 
East  Indies.  He  has  been  there  many,  many  years, 
first  with  high  hope,  with  much  business,  and  under 
the  protection  of  powerful  Captain  Lingard,  the 
famous  and  dreaded  "  Rajah  Laut,"  but  latterly  with 
nothing  left  to  him  but  his  love  for  his  half-caste 
daughter  Nina  and  his  belief  in  a  vast  treasure  waiting 
for  him  in  the  interior.  For  Captain  Lingard  has 
disappeared  for  ever,  ruined  and  broken,  and  the 
wily  Abdulla,  the  Arab  treacherously  introduced  so 
long  ago  by  Willems  (see  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands), 
has  sapped  the  very  life  of  his  trade.  A  heretic 
amongst  the  True  Believers,  the  once-influential 
Almayer  passes  a  despised  and  perilous  existence  beside 
the  steaming  waters  of  the  Pantai.  Everything  around 
him  has  sunk  into  decay  before  his  brooding  and 
embittered  sight,  but  at  last  hope,  in  the  form  of  Dain 
Maroola,  a  Malay  of  noble  family,  has  come  to  him 
with  the  promise  of  wealth.  For  it  is  with  Dain  the 
great  expedition  into  the  interior  is  to  be  made.  And 
with  the  gold  he  and  Nina  will  escape  from  their  prison 
to  Europe,  and  all  the  misery  of  the  past  will  be  blotted 
out.  But  in  these  visions  of  a  splendid  future  Almayer 
is  blind  to  the  present,  and  even  as  he  dreams  of 
perfect  felicity,  Dain,  the  conspirator,  has  stolen  away 
the  heart  of  Nina.  And  far  from  that  forlorn  and 
hopeless  spot  she  flies  with  him  across  the  sea,  the 
mysterious  and  untamed  Nina,  to  the  house  of  his 
father,  the  Rajah.  But  Almayer,  weakly  violent  and 
affectionate  by  turns,  sinks  under  the  double  blow 
of  calamity  and  disappointment. 

There  is  a  secret  air  of  plotting  in  this  book,  the  plot- 
ting of  the  local  Rajah,  Lakamba,  and  his  councillor, 
the  one-eyed  and  pessimistic  Babalatchi,  the  plotting 
of  Almayer  and  Dain,  of  Dain  and  the  Rajah,  of  Dain 


30  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

and  Nina,  of  Babalatchi  and  Mrs  Almayer,  of  Abdulla 
and  the  Dutch,  and,  as  it  were,  the  patient  and 
sombre  plotting  of  the  forces  of  nature.  For  the 
stifling,  moist,  and  foetid  smell  of  the  jungle  fills  the 
book  with  a  whispered  tension.  The  poisonous  breath 
of  the  river  and  of  the  rotting  forests  seems  to  have 
entered  into  the  hearts  of  all  these  actors,  and  there 
is  positive  relief  in  the  thought  of  Almayer' s  death. 
Almayer  s  Folly  is  not  one  of  Conrad's  easiest  stories 
to  read.  Its  monotonous  and  oppressive  atmosphere 
has  an  almost  physical  effect  upon  the  nerves.  But 
it  is  an  imposing  effort  of  its  kind,  this  sinister  revela- 
tion of  a  tropical  backwater. 

Conrad's  next  book  is  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands 
(1896).  This  is  another  tragic  story  of  Sambir  and 
the  Pantai,  and  it  would  have  been  almost  better 
to  consider  it  before  Almayer  s  Folly  because  it  treats 
of  a  date  fifteen  to  twenty  years  anterior  to  that  novel. 
In  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands  Almayer  is  still  young  and 
Nina  a  tiny  child.  Captain  Lingard  is  still  in  his  full 
vigour,  there  is  still  activity  on  the  wharf  of  Lingard 
and  Co.,  and  the  influence  of  Abdulla  is  but  a  shadow. 
And,  indeed,  all  might  have  remained  well  but  for 
the  cursed  Willems,  Hudig's  defaulting  clerk  from 
Macassar.  It  was  Captain  Lingard,  autocratic  and 
indulgent,  who  had  given  Willems  his  first  start  in 
life,  and  it  was  Captain  Lingard  who  bore  him  off  to 
the  safe  retreat  of  Sambir  when  the  outraged  Hudig 
thrust  him  forth  with  curses.  From  the  outset 
Willems  and  Almayer  hate  one  another.  It  is  a  thing 
the  likelihood  of  which  Captain  Lingard  should  have 
guessed.  When  he  sailed  down  the  river,  leaving 
the  two  men  together  in  the  treacherous  solitude  of 
the  forest,  he  might  have  known  that  disaster  would 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     31 


follow.  But  he  knew  only  that  his  will  was  law  and 
that  he,  the  benevolent  despot,  was  doing  everything 
for  the  best.  Will  ems,  idle  and  bored  to  death, 
meets  in  his  forest  walks  the  enchanting  Aissa,  daughter 
of  the  old  sea-pirate  who  lives  under  Lakamba's  pro- 
tection. They  love  with  the  swift  and  passionate 
abandon  of  the  East.  And  it  is  in  the  slavish  infatua- 
tion of  this  white  man  that  the  one-eyed  Babalatchi 
grasps  an  opening  for  his  eternal  sense  of  intrigue. 
Aissa  is  taken  secretly  from  Willems,  and  in  the 
madness  of  his  raving  he  is  told  that  only  under  one 
condition  will  he  ever  see  her  again — on  the  condition 
of  pilotting  Abdulla's  ship  from  the  river's  mouth  to 
the  settlement.  Abdulla  is  rich,  he  is  unscrupulous, 
and  once  he  is  in  Sambir  the  power  of  Lingard,  the 
dreaded  "  Rajah  Laut,"  will  cease.  The  infatuated 
Willems,  a  megalomaniac  and  a  man  without  con- 
science, commits  this  baseness  ;  and  the  rich  preserve 
of  the  white  captain,  his  benefactor,  is  filched  from  him 
for  ever. 

The  latter  part  of  the  story  consists  of  Captain 
Lingard' s  punishment  of  Willems.  He  returns  to 
the  settlement  and  he  finds  out  all  from  the  in- 
dignant Almayer.  On  his  boat  he  had  actually 
brought  with  him  Willem's  wife  and  child  and  he  came 
back  full  of  plans  and  good  thoughts  for  his  protege. 
But  his  revenge  is  terrible  enough.  He  sentences 
Willems  to  perpetual  imprisonment  in  a  dark  clearing 
of  the  Pantai.  Before  him  the  river,  behind  him  and 
on  both  sides  the  impenetrable  jungle.  Willem's 
love  for  Aissa  has  turned  to  loathing  and  he  seeks 
desperately  to  escape.  But  at  the  moment  of  his 
flight  (made  possible — in  appearance — by  the 
treachery  of  Almayer),  she  shoots  him  with  his  own 
revolver. 


32  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


The  story  of  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands  is  one  of 
violent  emotion  soon  spent — like  a  tropical  downpour. 
There  is  scheming  in  it,  hatred,  and  passion.  The 
action  is,  I  consider,  too  long  drawn  out,  but 
the  situation  is  impressive  and  even  terrible.  As 
in  Almaycr's  Folly  the  teeming,  patient,  and  silent 
life  of  the  wilds  weighs  upon  every  person  and  thing, 
colouring  the  whole  aspect  of  nature  not  only  in  a 
material  but  in  a  spiritual  sense.  An  Outcast  of  the 
Island  recks  of  the  dank  undergrowth. 

The  Niggey  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  (1898)  is  Conrad's 
third  novel.  It  is  the  story  of  one  voyage  of  the  sail- 
ing-ship Narcissus  from  Bombay  to  London — a  story 
dealing  \vith  calms  and  with  storms,  with  mutiny  on 
the  high  seas,  with  bravery  and  with  cowardice,  v/ith 
tumultuous  life,  and  with  death,  the  releaser  from 
toil.  "  The  nigger  of  the  Narcissus  "  is  James  Wait^ 
a  huge  St  Kitts  negro,  who  is  dying  from  con- 
sumption but  who  clings  to  existence  with  scorn,  with 
terror,  and  with  evil  words.  His  sinking  life  hangs 
like  a  mill-stone  round  the  hearts  of  the  sailors.  Only 
Donkin,  the  Cockney,  who  pilfers  from  the  dying  man, 
feels  in  his  dirty  little  soul  no  touch  of  compassion. 

It  is,  in  fact,  the  nigger  who  is  the  centre  figure  of 
the  book.  From  the  moment  he  steps  aboard  at 
Bombay  till  the  moment  his  dead  body  is  lowered 
into  the  northern  sea  he  dominates  the  whole  hfe  of 
the  ship.  The  wastrel  Donkin  is  cunning  enough  to 
use  him  and  his  illness  as  a  lever  for  .stirring  up  unrest 
in  the  hearts  of  the  crew.  They  dfeiire  their  officers 
but  they  cannot  understand  their  attitude  towards 
the  dying  man.  And  bewilderment  to  simple  men  is 
the  first  step  in  disorganisation.  But  the  individual 
human  interest  is  incidental  to  the  real  purpose  of 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     33 

the  story,  which  is  to  conjure  up  the  actual  spirit  of 
^  voyage,  to  make  it  Hve  again  before  our  very  eyes. 
ihis  book  is  reahstic  in  the  finest  .sense,  ahke  in  its 
^mosphere  and  its  characterisation.  I  We  can  almost 
smell  the  ocean,  almost  feel  the  ship  moving  beneath 
our  feet,  almost  sense  the  tropical  heat  and  the  winter 
cold.  And  it  is  the  same  when  we  come  to  look  at  the 
nien.  The  pictures  of  the  three  officers,  and  of  such 
men  as  Singleton,  "  a  sixty-year-old  child  of  the 
mysterious  sea,"  of  Podmore  the  cook,  of  Craig  (known 
commonly  as  ''  Belfast  "),  of  Wait  the  nigger,  and  of 
the  despised  (and  influential)  Donkin,  are  extraordin- 
arily defined  and  brilliant. 

(it  is  impossible  to  say  much  about  The  Nigger  of  the 
"  Narcissus,"  because  it  is  still  more  a  novel  without 
a  plot  than  Vanity  Fair  is  a  novel  without  a  hero. 
And  yet  it  is  one  of  Conrad's  most  original  conceptions. 
He  alone  has  ever  written  such  a  book.  It  has  the 
vividness  of  an  actuai  experience  touched  by  the  magic 
glitter  of  remembrance.  The  descriptions  of  the  sea 
and  of  the  life  on  board  are  strangely  beautiful.  The 
Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  has  the  qualities  of  an  epic — 
an, epic  of  the  arduous,  the  exacting,  and  tbe  enslaving 
service  of  the  sea.  [ 

Lord  Jim  (1900)  is  Conrad's  next  novel.  It  is  a 
story  of  r^niacso-and  of  the  effort  to  regain  self-respect 
for  a  deed  of  fatal  and  unexpected  cowardice.  TKe"' 
sea  and  secluded  Eastern  settlements  are  the  back- 
ground. "Lord  Jim,"  son  of  a  clergyman,  and  a  young 
man  of  romantic  iinagination,  faith  in  hiinself,  and  an 
almost  morbid  sensibility,  is  anofficer  on  the  pilgrim- 
ship  Patnd^s.  "  steamer  as  old  as  the  hills,  lean  like  a 
greyhound,  and  eaten  up  with  rust  worse  than  a  con- 
demned water-tank."     On  a  calm  night  in  the  Red 


34  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Sea,  while  Jim  on  the  bridge,  lulled  into  a  sense  of 
delicious  and  perfect  security,  is  awaiting  the  end  of 
his  watch,  the  Patna  passes  over  a  dereHct.     To  a  boat 
in  her  condition  such  a  thing  would  have  been  fatal 
ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred.     Not  one  of  the 
eight    hundred   sleeping   pilgrims   reahses   what   has 
happened,  but  immediately  a  subdued,  hideous  panic 
breaks  out  on  the  upper  deck  amongst  the  few  white 
officers  and  engineers.     Jim,  disdainful  of  their  terror, 
watches  in  scornful  silence  while  they  lower  a  boat  with 
feverish  haste.     At  any  instant  the  bulkheads  may  give 
(Jim  himself  has  made  an  examination  and  has  seen 
the  plates  bulging  inwards) — and  there  are  no  boats 
for   the    pilgrims.     He    watches   \vith   utter    disgust 
the  secret  fury  of  their  terror,  and  suddenly,  when 
the  boat  is  already  in  the  water,  he  jumps.     He  had 
not  meant  to  do  so,  he  was  sure  of  himself,  but  at  the 
crisis — he  jumps.     And  it  is  this  lapse  for  which  all 
the  rest  of  his  life  has  to  atone.     For  public  disgrace 
follows  quick  upon  their  action.     By  some  unaccount- 
able fortune  the  Patna  succeeds  in  keeping  afloat, 
and  is  towed  into  Suez  by  a  French  man-of-war — 
a  ship  deserted  by  her  officers.     So  the  more  or  less 
plausible  story  invented  by  the  captain,  who  knew  that 
dead  men  tell  no  tales,  turns  upon  them  to  rend  them 
for  good  and  all. 

It  is  at  the  court  of  inquiry  that  Marlow,  the  narrator 
of  the  tale,  makes  Jim's  acquaintance.  He  is  attracted 
to  him  against  his  will,  and  in  all  Jim's  subsequent 
wanderings  he  takes  some  active  or  passive  participa- 
tion. And  Jim's  wanderings  are  many  and  strange, 
for  they  are,  indeed,  the  wanderings  of  an  uneasy 
spirit.  Everywhere  he  is  dogged  by  some  evidence,'^ 
some  reminiscence  of  that  one  act,  and  he  flees  from 
spot  to  spot,  throwing  up  good  and  permanent  billets 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     35 


at  the  breath  of  suspicion.  For  he  is  the  slave  of  an 
idea — the  idea  of  rehabihtation.  And  at  last,  in  far 
Patusan,  as  adviser  and  virtual  ruler  of  a  savage  and 
trusting  people,  he  gains  all  the  peace  of  mind  that  he 
is  ever  likely  to  knov/.  In  the  sun  of  this  colossal 
triumph  the  shadow  of  his  failure  is  hardly  discernible. 
Marlow  visits  him  in  this  distant  corner  of  the  East 
and  finds  him  crowned  with  the  prestige  of  an  immense 
and  invariable  success.  And  yet  the  final  mishap  of 
his  life  is  lying  ready  at  hand.  Certain  marauders,  a 
mongrel  crew  of  pirates,  penetrate  to  his  settlement 
with  bloodthirsty  intent.  They  are  surrounded,  cut 
off  from  .supplies,  and  could  have  been  killed  to  a  man, 
but  on  Jim's  advice  they  are  allowed  to  depart  in 
peace  to  their  ship  at  the  mouth  of  the  river.  They  go 
and  Patusan  rejoices.  But  in  their  descent,  as  a  last 
revenge,  they  murder  a  body  of  resting  warriors  com- 
manded by  the  son  of  the  chief,  Doramin.  And  in  a 
flash  the  power  of  Jim's  reputation,  of  his  unbounded 
prestige,  crumbles  into  dust ;  and  from  being  revered 
almosf  as  a^god  he  is  execrated  almost  as  a  devil. 
(But  in  this  material  disaster  he  grasps  the  chance  of 
a  final  spiritual  rehabilitation.  With  unflinching  and 
cruel  courage  (he  leaves  to  her  despair  the  girl  he  loves) 
he  crosses  the  river  to  old  Doramin,  and  allows  him  to 
shoot  him  dead.  So  he  atones  to  himself  for  the  lost 
rectitude  of  bygone  years.  ^  "  And  that  is  the  end. 
He  passes  away  under  a  cloud,  inscrutable  at  heart, 
TorgoTten,  unforgiven,  and  excessively  romantic." 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Conrad's  fam.e  as 
a  novelist  rests  chiefly  upon  Lord  Jim.  And  perhaps 
the  main  reason  for  this  is  that  it  raises  a  fierce  moral 
issue  in  a  very  definite  form  andTcarnes  it  through  on 
a  high  level  of  creative  intensity.  But  it  would,  I 
think,  have  been  even  more  powerful  had  it  been  told 


36  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


as  a  plain  narrative  rather  than  as  a  story  recounted 
at  second-hand.  This  is  so  partly  because  it  would 
have  convevcd  still  greater  conviction,  and  partly 
because  one'is  apt  to  get  weary  of  viewing  everything 
through  the  eyes  of  Mariow,  who  is  a  mixture  of_the 
:^  ironic- aad^^entimental  phjlo^pher^  On  the  other 
hand  one  must  adm'it^liaf^lt  gams  something  from 
this  detached  and  organic  treatment.  We  see  the 
whole  tragedy  with  a  clearness  that  would  have  been 
impossible  had  the  perspective  been  eliminated.  ^,For 
Jim,  himself,  though  unusual  and  romantic,  is, J;o  a 
large  extent,  inarticulate.  Conrad  is  too  wise  to  make 
many  of  his  heroes  clever  men. 

The  character  of  Jim,  rather  than  his  adventures, 
is  the  mainspring  of  the  book,  but  the  story  is  told 
throughout  with  intense  realism.  Conrad  has  never 
written  anytliing  more  sumptuous  than  the  description 
of  the  passage  of  the  pilgrim-ship  across  the  Indian 
Ocean. 

Another  curious  thing  to  notice  about  Lord  Jim  is 
that  it  divides  itself  into  two  unofficial  parts  of  verj^ 
unequal  length  and  merit.  The  first  part,  which  ends 
with  the  remarks  of  the  French  officer  about  a  third 
of  the  way  through  the  book,  is  much  the  more  perfect 
and  satisfying.  The  second  part  reads  almost  like  an 
after-thought.  It  introduces,  too  late  in  the  novel, 
a  new  set  of  characters  and  it  develops,  too  weari- 
somely, the  philosophic  problem  of  cowardice  and  its 
retribution.  It  is  in  this  second  part,  especially,  that 
one  feels  the  mistake  of  teUing  the  story  through 
Mariow.  In  the  first  part  he  does  serve  a  very  real 
purpose,  but  in  the  second  part  he  has  become  an 
aimless  onlooker. 

Although,  in  my  opinion,  Lord  Jim  is  not  one  of 
Conrad's  greatest  novels  (its  purpose  is  almost  too 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     Si 

didactic — and  it  is  a  purpose  strained  to  the  uttermost), 
still  it  will  ever  remain  one  of  his  most  widely  known, 
for  it  is  amongst  his  strongest,  most  readable,  and 
most  closely  argued  efforts. 

'^^nstroino  (1903)  is  the  next  novel  by  Conrad.  It  is 
.xe  history  of  a  South  American  revolution.  But  on 
this  leading  theme  there  hang  such  a  multitude  of 
side-issues  and  of  individual  experiences  that  it  is 
certainly  the  hardest  of  Conrad's  novels  to  summarise. 
In  this  story  of  vast  riches,  of  unbridled  passions,  of 
patriotism,  of  greed,  of  barbaric  cruelty,  of  the  m^ost 
debased  and  of  the  most  noble  impulses,  the  whole 
history  of  South  America  seems  to  be  epitomised. 

In  the  republic_of  Cqstaguana,  one  of  these  hopeless, 
unsettled  South  American  republics,  there  is  one 
prosperous  and  contented  province,  the  sea-board 
Occidental  Province,  whose  capital  Sulaco  is  the 
head-quarters  of  the  famous  "  Gould  Concession," 
owners  of  the  San  Tome  silver  inine,  which  has  brought 
wealth  and  security  to  the  whole  district.  The  head 
of  the  conces.sion  is  an  English  Costaguano  of  the 
third  generationT^Charles  Gould — a  taciturn  man, 
hiding  in  his  silence  an  inherited  love  of  order  and 
hatred  of  political  unrest  that  make  of  him  a  formidable 
type  of  fanatic — the  cold  and  reasonable  type.  His 
wffe,  the  frail  and  compassionate  Dona  Emilia,  is  the 
most  moving  figure  in  the  whole  of  Conrad's  books. 
The  slow  evaporation  of  Charles  Gould's  love  for  her 
in  his  intense  absorption  in  "  material  interests  "  is 
a  tragic  undercurrent  to  this  story  of  visible  terror 
and  anarchy.  For  the  wealth  of  Sulaco  has  attracted, 
at  last,  the,. politicians  from^beyofldLthe  mountains, 
and  all  the  vilest^jofSaJTSlItl^i  republic.  In  the 
revolution  to  upset  the    humane"~Tresident-Dictator 


38  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Ribiera  (the  one  hope  of  Costaguana),  a  wild  rush 
is  made  for  Sulaco  both  from  the  mountains  and  the 
sea.  The  whole  social  fabric,  built  up  with  such 
laborious  care,  falls  to  pieces  at  the  breath  of  disaster. 
The  Sulaco  aristocracy,  powerless  in  the  hands  of  a 
mob  who,  fickle  and  cringing  to  success,  welcome  the 
victorious  revolutionaries  with  orgies  of  disorder  and 
joy,  await  the  ruin  of  exile  or  shameful  death.  But 
in  that  gloom  and  horror  is  born  anew  the  great  idea 
of  the  Occidental  Republic.  It  is  the  idea  of  the  young 
Decoud,  a  mocker  and  a  journalist,  whose  patriotic 
ardour  appears  more  amatory  than  disinterested  and 
who  despises  the  evil  fortune  that  has  brought  him 
home  from  the  gaiety  of  his  Parisian  life.  His-plan, 
put  shortly,  is  for  the  Occidental  Province  to  cut 
itself  off  from  the  rest  of  Costaguana  and  become  the 
Occidental  Repubhc.  And,  in  fact,  that  is  what 
takes  place.  For  at  the  heigHto-Pthe^- terror,  when 
Charl(55 -Gould  and  others  are  expecting  instant  death 
(Gould  has  absolutely  refused  to  play  into  the  hands 
of  the  revolutionaries).  General  Barrios,  one  of  the 
incorruptibles  of  the  Ribiera  regime,  returns  with  his 

army  and" drives  off lheinvaderS.~~ — 

But  I  have  not  yet  mentioned  Nostromo  himself, 
the  man  after  whom  the  book  is  named.  He  is  an 
ItaUan  who  has  come  to  Sulaco  on  a  sailing-vessel 
and  har\vorked"his  way  up  to  be  Capataz  de  Carga- 
dores — the  most  reliable,  the  most  useful,  and  the 
most  feared  man  in  Sulaco.  (His  very  nickname 
of  "  Nostromo  "  gives  the  measure  of  his  success.) 
He  is  a  person  of  almost  boundless  vanity  and  resource, 
and  the  revelation  of  his  curious,  complex  character 
makes,  as  it  were,  onci  of  the  discreet  foundations  of 
the  book.  For  he  is  a  man  suffering  from  a  grievance 
which  he  never  reveals — a  grievance  against  society 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     SD 

that  takes  too  much  for  granted,  that  cheats  him  of 
his  reward,  that  cannot  adequately  recognise  all  that 
he  has  done  for  it.  On  the  night  before  the  invasion 
of  Sulaco  he  is  told  off  to  remove  the  silver  treasure 
out  to  sea.  This  vo^gage  of  his,  with  Decoud  who  is 
fieeirig  for  his  life,  is  one  of  the  wonderful  things 
in  Conrad.  He  hides  the  treasure,  indeed,  hides 
it  safely  and  deep  in  a  desert  island  of  the  Placid 
Gulf,  but  he  never  reveals  its  resting-place  to  mortal 
ears.  For  with  Decoud' s  death  and  the  sinking  of 
the  lighter  the  treasure  is  supposed  to  be  lost  for  ever 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  And  Nostromo,  not  so 
much  out  of  greed  as  out  of  pique,  keeps  the  secret 
in  his  breast  and  grows  rich  "  very  slowly,"  visiting 
the  island  at  night  to  extract  an  occasional  bar  of 
the  incorruptible  metal.  And  it  is  there  he  meets 
his  death  by  a  tragic  misunderstanding.  For  on  the 
lonely  Isabel  a  lighthouse  has  been  erected  now  and 
it  is  guarded  by  old  Giorgio  Viola,  a  Garibaldino 
veteran,  and  his  two  daughters,  the  dark  Linda  and 
the  fair  Gizelle.  To  Linda  Nostromo  is  betrothed, 
but  it  is  Gizelle  that  he  loves.  The  Garibaldino, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  treasure  or  of  his  other  secret, 
shoots  him  as  he  skulks  below,  thinking  he  is  some 
wastrel,  philandering  fellow  come  on  shore  to  meet 
his  daughter  Gizelle. 

I  have  done  no  more  than  just  touch  upon  the  out- 
skirts of  this  extraordinary  work.  For  it  is  a  book 
containing  so  many  threads  of  interest  and  so  many 
individualities  of  the  first  order  that  to  condense 
it  with  any  realism  is  impossible.  And  how  is  one  to 
recreate  the  romance  of  atmosphere  ?  To  read 
Nostromo  is  like  drinking  from  a  cold  spring  on  the 
mountain  side — it  thrills  you  to  the  very  marrow  of 
your  bones  with  a  gulp  of  breathless  and  exhilarating 


40  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

life.  Nostronw  is  Conrad's  longest  novel,  and  in  my 
opinion,  it  is  by  far  his  greatest.  It  is  a  book  singularly 
little  known  and  one  which  many  people  find  a  diffi- 
culty in  reading  (probably  owing  to  the  confused  way 
in  which  time  is  indicated),  but  it  is  one  of  the  most 
astounding  tours  de  force  in  all  literature.  For  sheer 
creative  genius  it  overtops  all  Conrad's  work.  Its 
manner  of  narration  is,  perhaps,  involved,  but  its 
intricacy  is  highly  artistic,  and  the  continuity  of  the 
whole  is  convincing.  In  dramatic  vigour,  in  psycho- 
logical subtlety,  and  in  the  sustained  feeling  of  a  mood 
(an  atmosphere  at  once  physical  and  mental)  Nostromo 
is  a  phenomenal  masterpiece.  It  is  Conrad's  genius 
incarnate. 

In  contrast  to  Nostromo,  The  Secret  Agent  (1907) 
is  a  comparatively  simple  book.  It  is  a  novel  treating 
of  the  underworld  of  London  life — the  underworld 
of  anarchists  and  spies.  Verloc,  "  the  secret  agent," 
is  ostensibly  an  anarchist,  but  in  reality  a  spy  of  one 
of  the  big  Embassies.  He  keeps  a  dim,  disreputable 
shop  in  a  side  street  of  Soho,  w^here  he  lives  with  his 
wife,  Winnie,  his  wife's  mother,  and  his  half-witted 
brother-in-law,  Stevie.  j  Verloc  in  his  heavy  and 
slothful  way  is  a  domesticated  man  and  well  pleased 
with  his  comfortable  existence.  So  that  he  is  horribly 
upset  when  he  gets  a  broad  hint  from  the  Embassy 
that  he  is  not  doing  enough  for  his  money.  Either 
he  must  make  himself  felt  or  he  will  be  sacked.  Mr 
Vladimir  is  very  explicit.  In  the  days  of  the  late 
Baron  Stott-Wartenheim  it  was  easy,  he  admits,  to 
impose  upon  the  Embassy,  but  now  what  they  want 
are  concrete  proofs.  Verloc  must  stir  up  public 
opinion  against  the  anarchists— he  must  engineer  a 
plot  that  will  drive  the   police  into   drastic   action. 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     41 

And  it  is  with  such  words  ringing  in  his  ears  that 
Verloc  slowly  returns  home.  For  a  month  he  broods 
in  silence,  miserably  j,torn  from  side  to  side,  plunged 
in  bitter  thoughts.  But  at  last,  in  his  cloudy  and 
secretive  mind,  he  evolves  a  plan.  He  plays  upon 
the  feelings  of  the  merciful  Stevie  till  he  has  worked 
that  simple-minded  j^outh  into  a  speechless  fury  of 
pity  for  the  wrongs  of  mankind.  And  he  suggests  to 
him  the  remedy — the  blowing  up  of  Greenwich 
Observatory.  (Stevie,  in  the  singleness  of  his  heart, 
accepts  every  idea  of  Verloc 's  because  he  has  always 
been  brought  up  to  believe  that  Mr  Verloc  is  good. 
He  is  the  willing  and  exultant  victim  of  the  cause  of 
humanity.  So  far,  all  right — the  only  hitch  to  Verloc' s 
plan  is  that  Stevie,  stumbling  in  the  fog,  getsjlowii- 
up  by  his  own  bomb^  "^ 

Winnie  Verloc,  whose  whole  life,  to  the  very  fact  of 
marrying  the  comfortably  situated  Verloc,  is  one  long 
sacrifice  for  her  beloved  Stevie,  knows  nothing  of 
all  this  plotting.  She  only  knows  that  Stevie  is  in 
the  country  with  Michaelis,  an  ex-convict  and  con- 
vinced humanitarian,  for  a  few  days  of  fresh  air. 
She  guesses  nothing,  but  wonders  vaguely  at  Verloc' s 
curious  air  of  depression.  Even  on  the  day  of  the 
explosion,  not  having  seen  an  evening  paper,  she  is 
completely  ignorant  of  the  very  fact,  till  she  is  en- 
lightened by  a  detective  who  had  found  amidst  the 
shattered  fragments  of  the  body  a  tape  with  Stevie's 
name  and  address  on  it  (the  handiwork  of  his  sister's 
ceaseless  and  tender  forethought).  Then,  indeed,  she 
realises  all. 

The  last  part  of  the  book  is  v^ry_dreadfuL  When 
the  detective  has  left  she  remains  motionless  in  the 
twilight  of  the  shop.  Verloc  enters.  She  trembles 
and  remains  still.     And  all  the  while  the  reserve  of 


42  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


long  years  is  slipping  off  her,  and  hatred  and  despair 
have  filled  her  heart.  All  her  violent  maternal  love 
for  Stevie,  all  her  outraged  and  defeated  love,  keep 
her,  with  their  conflicting  emotions,  as  composed  as 
a  woman  of  stone.  But  suddenly,  in  a  moment  of 
animal  revenge,  she  seizes  a  knife  and  stabs  Verloc  to 
the  heart.  In  the  reaction  of  terror  she  staggers 
from  the  shop  only  to  meet  Comrade  Ossipon,  the 
swaggering  and  irresistible  anarchist  from  whom  she 
has  always  shrunk.  Now,  in  her  misery,  she  flings 
herself  upon  him,  telling  him  all,  and  beseeching  him 
to  fly  with  her  and  protect  her.  Sick  with  fear  and 
greed  (he  wants  Verloc' s  savings)  he  promises ;  but 
on  the  platform  of  Waterloo  Station,  when  the  train 
is  moving,  he  jumps  out  and  leaves  her  to  her  fate. 
That  night  she  drowns  herself  in  mid-channel. 
'  The  Secret  Agent  is  a  great  book  but  it  suffers,  to 
csome  extent,  from  the  improbability  of  its  plot.  It  is 
founded,  obviously,  on  the  notorious  explosion  in 
Greenwich  Park  of  twenty  years  ago,  but  in  his  imagin- 
ative effort  to  build  a  story  around  this  episode  Conrad 
has  fallen  into  rather  the  same  error  that  Meredith 
fell  into  in  Dimia  of  the  Crossways.  Meredith  did 
not  quite  succeed  in  making  Diana's  betrayal  of 
Dacier's  secret  credible,  although  it  is  simply  the 
story  of  ]\Irs  Norton  and  The  Times,  and  Conrad  does 
not  quite  succeed  in  making  his  explanation  of  the 
Greenwich  explosion  credible — although  there  must 
be  some  explanation.  But  though  the  main  idea  of 
I  the  Secret  Agent  is  far-fetched,  its  atmosphere  and  its 
f  characters  are  in  his  finest  manner^^  Winnie  and 
Stevie  are  people  of  the  highest  and  most  touching 
reality,  and  Verloc  himself,  the  anarchist  called  "  The 
Professor,"  Ossipon,  and  Winnie's  mother,  are  indeed 
admirable.  |^The  secret  air  of  the  shop  is  produced  with 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     43 

fidelity,  and  the  whole  tone  of  the  book  is  strangely 
authentic^; 

Put  briefly,  the  plot  of  Under  Western  Eyes  (191 1) 
is  as  follows.  One  night  the  student  Razumov,  a 
silent,  solitary,  and  ambitious  man,  returns  home  to 
his  lodging  in  a  poor  quarter  of  St  Petersburg  to 
discover,  awaiting  him  there,  another  student  called 
Haldin.  This  Haldin  is  a  revolutionary  of  an  extreme 
type  who  has  that  very  morning  assassinated  an 
official  with  a  bomb.  As  yet  undiscovered,  he  has 
fled  to  Razumov  for  help.  It  is  true  that  they  have 
never  spoken  together  of  revolutionary  matters,  but 
he  has  conceived  an  exalted  opinion  of  him  on  account 
of  his  reserved  and  austere  character.  Haldin' s 
recital  and  request  for  help  stagger  and  infuriate 
Razumov,  not  only  because  he  considers  him  a  criminal 
but  because  he  realises  the  grave  jeopardy  into  which 
his  own  future  is  thrown  should  this  meeting  ever 
be  guessed  at.  He  has  always  had  a  hatred  of  vision- 
aries, and  his  secret  aim  is  to  attain  distinction  in  the 
government  service.  Being  sent  out  by  Haldin  to 
arrange  for  his  escape,  he  ends  up,  after  a  futile  effort 
to  do  so,  by  denouncing  him  to  the  police.  This 
midnight  betrayal,  while  Haldin  reposes  trustfully 
in  his  bed,  is  the  most  tremendous  thing  in  the  book. 
And  the  only  result  of  it  all  is  that  Razumov  becomes 
convinced  that  he,  himself,  is  suspected  by  the  police. 
In  a  scene  between  him  and  Councillor  Mikulin,  who 
has  charge  of  the  enquiry,  he  endeavours  to  probe 
their  intention  concerning  him.  But  Councillor 
Mikuhn  is  not  to  be  easily  drawn.  And  caught 
thus  in  the  web  of  suspicion,  Razumov  consents  to  go 
as  a  government  spy  to  Geneva,  where  there  is  a  large 
colony  of  Russian  conspirators.     Here,  as  fate  would 


44  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


have  it,  he  meets  Haldin's  sister,  who  considers  him 
II  hero,  as  he  is  supposed  to  have  been  her  brother's 
last  associate  and  helper.  On  all  hands,  indeed,  he 
is  treated  warmly,  though  as  something  of  an  enigma  ; 
for  he  cannot  hide  the  bitterness  of  his  animosity 
and  the  gnawing  of  remorse.  They  have  been  fully 
roused  in  him  by  contact  with  Nathalie  Haldin.  She 
is  presented  as  a  beautiful  and  true  nature  whose 
trust  in  Ramuzov  is  unbounded.  Slowly,  under  the 
awakening,  this  life  of  hes  grows  impossible  to  him. 
13ut  it  is  not  till  all  chances  of  his  ever  being  discovered 
have  disappeared,  not  till  he  finds  that  he  is  falling 
in  love  with  Nathalie  and  that  his  love  will  be  re- 
turned, that  he  resolves  to  confess.  At  midnight,  in 
a  room  full  of  determined  and  reckless  men,  he  makes 
his  reparation.  He  is  deafened  for  ever  by  having 
the  drums  of  both  his  ears  broken.  Early  that  same 
morning,  tottering  on  the  road  in  the  perfect  silence 
of  the  surrounding  world,  he  gets  run  over  by  a  tramcar 
and  severely  hurt.  He  is  tended  by  a  Russian  woman, 
who  devotes  her  life  to  his  misery,  and  at  the  close  of 
the  book  he  is  living  with  her  in  the  South  ,of  Russia, 
slowly  dying. 

The  story  gets  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it  is  told 
by  an  old  English  teacher  of  languages  in  Geneva, 
partly  in  his  own  words  and  partly  from  a  diary  left 
by  Razumov.  Under  Western  Eyes  is  really  a  one  man 
book,  and  as  such,  all  other  figures  are  naturally 
subsidiary  to  the  main  one.  Razumov,  ..the  behevcr 
U)  oidcrjuid  in  the  .calxu-Avisdom  of  organised  jreform, 
stands  forth  in  the  hard  role  of  constant  opposition. 
His  is  the  psychology  of  a  man  in  revolt  against  revolt. 
His  appeal  to  one's  sympathy  lacks  sentiment  but 
is  poignant  all  the  same.  The  book  is  written  with 
great  precision  and  subtlety  of  language,  and  marks 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     45 

a  step  forward  in  Conrad's  exactitude  of  style.  The 
description  of  the  winter  night  of  Russia,  of  the 
Russian  colony  in  Geneva,  and  of  the  sister  and  mother 
of  Haldin  are  particularly  striking.  Personally  I  do 
not  put  Under  Western  Eyes  on  so  lofty  a  pinnacle  as, 
say,  The  Secret  Agent  (there  is  a  certain  bleakness 
about  it),  but  I  think  it  is  a  surer  piece  of  art. 

Chance  (1914)  is  Conrad's  latest  novel.  As  its  name 
implies  the  iiony  of  chance  is  the  leading  link  of  the 
whole  structure.  The  story  is  wanting  in  conventional 
plot  and,  though  full  of  events  and  characters,  concerns, 
in^chief,  two  people — Flora  de  Barral,  the  daughter 
of  a  famous  (and  fraudulent)  financier,  and  Captain 
Roderick  Anthony,  son  of  a  poet  and  master  of  the 
Ferndale.  The  book  is  divided  into  two  parts,  named 
respectively  "The  Damsel"  and  "The  Knight." 
The  first  concerns  Flora  de  Barral's  childhood  and  her 
miserable  youth,  and  the  second  concerns  Captain 
Anthony  and  his  life  with  Flora  aboard  the  Ferndale. 
After  the  crash  which  sent  de  Barral  to  penal  servitude 
and  herself  to  the  horrors  of  abasing  poverty.  Miss  de 
Barral's  best  friends  proved  to  be  a  Mr  and  Mrs  Fyne, 
whom  she  had  known  slightly  in  the  days  of  her  wealth. 
It  is  at  their  house  that  she  meets  Captain  Anthony, 
Mrs  Fyne's  brother,  home  from  sea  on  one  of  his  rare 
visits.  ;  And  it  is  in  a  sudden  and  overwhelming 
flash  of  intuition  that  Anthony  sees  into  the  depths  of 
her  forlorn  and  despairing  soul.  He  carries  her  oft" 
with  him  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  boundless  pity 
springing  into  love — thus  offending  mortally  the 
correct  and  decorous  Mrs  Fyne.  And  it  is  on  board 
the  Ferndale  that  Flora,  now  Mrs  Anthony,  brings 
the  ex-convict  (and  more  than  ever  monomaniac) 
de  Barral.     His  insane  hatred  of  the  Captain,  who  has 


46  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


come  between  his  daughter  and  the  brilliant  marriage 
of  his  dreams,  gives  a  sinister  background  to  the 
misunderstanding  sundering  for  so  long  Anthony  and 
his  wife.  For  she  believes  that  his  action  is  founded 
entirely  upon  magnanimity — a  thing  intolerable  to 
her  proud  and  embittered  heart — and  he  believes 
that  to  her  he  is  merely  the  means  of  freedom  for 
herself  and  refuge  for  her  father.  It  is  in  the  crisis 
of  old  de  Barral's  attempt  to  poison  Anthony  that  the 
barriers  are  swept  away. 

These  two  people,  the  young  and  unhappy  girl  and 
the  silent  and  really  noble  seaman,  are  drawn  with 
Conrad's  minutest  and  most  thriUing  insight.  Captain 
Anthony  is  one  of  the  most  affecting  characters  in 
all  his  books — a  sort  of  male  counterpart  to  the  Mrs 
Gould  of  Nostromo.  And  Flora  de  Barral  is  a  tragic 
figure.  The  story  of  her  youth,  of  her  meeting  with 
Anthony,  and  of  their  life  on  board  ship  has  a  quality 
of  distress  and  pathos  that  is  very  powerful. 
Anthony's  treatment  of  her  is  touching  in  the  con- 
trolled passion  of  his  pity  and  indignation.  And 
besides  Flora  de  Barral  and  Captain  Anthony,  Chance 
contains  in  the  financier  de  Barral,  in  Mr  and  Mrs 
Fyne,  in  Powell  (second  mate  of  the  Ferndale  and 
one  of  the  prominent  people  of  the  book),  in  Franklin 
(first  mate  of  the  Ferndale),  in  Flora's  detestable 
governess,  and  in  her  manufacturer  cousin,  an  enticing 
gallery  of  portraits.  The  breath  of  Hfe  is  in  these 
creations.  Marlow,  whom  Conrad  introduces  into 
several  of  his  tales,  appears  here  once  again  in  the 
guise  of  narrator— not  so  much  of  his  own  adventures 
as  of  other  people's. 

This  strange  chronicle  of  passion  and  disaster  has 
the  reserve  and  elusive  subtlety  that  are  typical  of 
Conrad's  later  manner — of  Under  Western  Eyes,  for 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     47 


instance.  The  air  of  romance  is  secret  but  in  the 
twihght  of  these  sombre  pages  one  feels  the  author's 
immense  creative  realism.  The  obscurity  of  such  a 
book  3iS  Chance  arises  from  the  superabundance  of 
atmosphere — of  spiritual  as  opposed  to  physical 
atmosphere.  (Chance  is  probably  the  hardest  of 
Conrad's  books  about  which  one  can  make  any  con- 
clusive judgment.  Admirers  of  his  earlier  work  may 
consider  it  almost  arid,  but  that  is  simply  to  misunder- 
stand the  recent  development  of  Conrad's  art.  For 
tlie  truth  is  that  Chance  is  a  work  of  the  finest  shades 
and  of  the  highest  tension.  It  is  the  most  finished 
of  all  his  books. 

With  Chance  we  come  to  the  end  of  the  novels 
written  solely  by  Conrad.  There  still  remain  to  be 
considered  the  two  novels  he  wrote  in  conjunction 
with  Ford  Hueffer,  but  before  examining  them  I  will 
say  something  about  his  five  volumes  of  stories. 

The  first  of  these  is  Tales  of  Unrest  (1898). 
There  are  five  stories  in  this  book — "  Karain," 
"The  Idiots,"  "An  Outpost  of  Progress,"  "The 
Return,"  and  "  The  Lagoon."  The  first  of  them, 
"  Karain,"  is  a  tale  of  adventure,  of  revenge,  and  of 
ghostly  possession.  It  is  recounted  in  the  safe  refuge 
of  a  schooner  riding  at  anchor  in  an  island  bay  of  an 
Eastern  Archipelago,  by  the  chief  of  a  war-like  people. 
The  audience  are  the  young  officers  of  the  ship. 
Karain  is  a  chief  of  mighty  prestige  in  his  tiny  and 
obscure  corner  of  the  world  but  he  is  tormented  by  a 
ghost — by  the  ghost  of  Pata  Matara,  his  friend. 
Pata  Matara's  sister  had  married  Karain's  brother 
but  had  left  him  to  live  with  a  white  trader,  who  had 
taken  her  away  with  him  when  he  left  their  land. 


48  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


And  thereupon  Karain  and  Pata  Matara  swear 
vengeance  and  track  them  through  all  the  East  in 
a  real  Odyssey  of  painful  and  prolonged  wanderings. 
But  in  the  years  of  their  journeying  the  vision  of 
Pata  Matara' s  sister  has  risen  before  Karain  in  the 
guise  of  perfection,  and  when  at  last  they  find  them 
in  the  flesh  and  Pata  Matara  is  about  to  shoot, 
Karain,  frenzied  by  the  strength  of  his  illusion,  shoots 
Pata  Matara  and  saves  the  woman's  life.  And  now 
in  the  secure  and  honoured  po§ition  of  his  new  life  he 
is  tormented  by  the  silent  presence  of  his  friend. 

"  The  Idiots,"  is  a  tale  of  Northern  France.  Jean 
Pierre  Bacadou  is  a  rich  Breton  farmer  who  loves  his 
land  with  the  deep  affection  of  a  French  peasant.  But 
by  some  tragic  mischance  all  his  four  children  prove 
to  be  idiots.  His  rage  and  despair  drive  him  to  the 
violence  of  drink  and  crueltj/.  He  is  determined  to 
ha\'e  an  ordinary  child  who  shall  inherit  his  land. 
But  Susan,  his  wife,  dare  not  chance  her  malign  fate 
again,  and  when  he  attempts  to  approach  her  she 
stabs  him.  Later,  on  that  wild  and  storm}^  night,  she 
flings  herself  into  the  sea  amidst  the  rocks.  But  the 
poor  idiots,  in  good  health  and  in  darkness  of  soul, 
survive  and  flourish. 

"  An  Outpost  of  Progress  "  is  the  story  of  a  trading 
station  in  the  wilds  of  Africa.  Two  white  men, 
Kayerts  and  CarUer,  incompetent  and  foolish  people, 
are  left  in  the  wilderness  to  take  charge  of  the  station 
for  six  months.  They  begin  by  being  friendly  and  full 
of  trifling  activity  but  gradually  the  lassitude  and  un- 
restraint of  the  wilds  creep  over  their  minds.  They 
realise  that  their  ivory  is  coming  from  the  sale  of  slaves, 
and.  though  flaming  with  indignation  at  first,  it  is  not 
long  before  they  tacitly  acquiesce.  Moreover,  a  secret 
and  growing  irritation  with  one  another  begins  to 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     49 


blacken  their  lives.  The  relief  boat  is  late,  they 
abandon  hope,  and  the  station  work  is  neglected. 
Fever  undermines  them,  and  their  irritation,  long  pent 
up,  blazes  out  suddenly  over  the  question  of  a  few 
lumps  of  white  sugar.  Carlier  threatens  Kayerts, 
and  Kayerts,  in  an  agony  of  terror,  shoots  Carlier  dead. 
Next  morning,  through  the  fog,  the  whistle  of  the 
relief  steamer  is  heard.  Kayerts,  rousing  himself 
from  his  lethargy,  runs  out  and  hangs  himself. 

"  The  Return  "  tells  how  Alvan  Hervey,  a  rich  and 
conventional  city  man,  arrives  home  one  evening 
to  find  a  note  from  his  wife  saying  that  she  has  left 
him  to  live  with  an  editor  of  a  paper  owned  by  Alvan 
Hervey.  He  has  not  got  over  the  shock  of  reading 
the  scrawled  lines  when  his  wife  reappears — she  has 
found  that  she  has  not  sufficient  moral  courage  for 
the  step.  The  mutiny  in  Hervey's  mind  fills  most  of 
the  pages  of  this,  the  longest  story  in  Tales  of  Unrest. 
He  decides  that  all  mast  go  on  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  and  his  wife,  cold,  hostile,  and  half-remorse- 
ful, agrees.  But  late  a.t  night  when  she  has  retired 
to  her  room  and  he  is  left  alone  with  his  thoughts,  he 
finds  that  this  life  of  deception  and  uncertainty  will 
be  intolerable.  He  rushes  upstairs  and  bursts  into 
his  wife's  room.  Then,  before  her  icy  woids  and  her 
look  of  hatred,  he  flies  from  the  house,  banging  the 
door  behind  him.     "  He  never  returned."  "     ^ 

"  The  Lagoon  "  is  another  of  those  stories  told  to 
a  white  man  by  a  native  of  the  East.  In  the  depth 
of  the  forest,  darkness  overtakes  the  white  man  and 
he  determines  to  spend  the  night  in  Arsat's  clearing. 
He  has  known  Arsat  long  ago  in  a  distant  country. 
He  finds  him  in  his  hut  by  the  side  of  his  dying 
^vife,  and  through  the  long  watches  of  the  night  he 
listens  to  the  story  of  Arsat's  passion  and  of  his  escape 

D 


50  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


with  his  beloved.  They  had  fled  far  from  the  revenge 
of  a  powerful  rajah,  and  with  them  had  fled  Arsat's 
brother.  But,  alas,  the  brother  had  been  killed  by 
the  enemy  and  Arsat  had  not  dared  to  turn  back  to 
his  rescue.  It  is  a  bitter  regret  to  him,  now  that  all 
his  hopes  are  dissolving  in  death,  and  when  she  is  no 
more  he  intends  to  return  at  last  for  one  final  fight. 
As  they  talk  together  the  dawn  rises  over  the  forest 
and  the  lagoon. 

The  most  remarkable  story  in  Tales  of  Unrest  is 
"  The  Return,"  which  is  well  seconded  by  ''An 
Outpost  of  Progress."  The  most  beautiful  is  certainly 
"The  Lagoon"  (it  is  particularly  interesting  from 
the  fact  that  it  is  the  first  short  story  Conrad  ever 
wrote),  while  "  Karain  "  is  the  sunniest,  and  "The 
Idiots  "  the  most  realistic.  These  stories  suffer  from  the 
defects  of  Conrad's  early  richness  of  style — the  sonorous 
splendour  of  their  language  and  emotion  is  almost 
cloying.  But  "  The  Return  "  is  decidedly  one  of  the 
most  astonishing  stories  Conrad  has  written,  and 
there  are  lyrical  passages  in  "  The  Lagoon  "  of  the 
purest  loveliness.  Tales  of  Unrest  is  not  a  mature 
book,  not  so  mature  as  the  novels  of  this  period,  but 
it  is  a  book  that  cannot  be  ignored  by  any  student 
of  Conrad.  Indeed  its  immaturity  is,  in  my  opinion, 
at  least  as  valuable  as  some  of  his  more  finished  work. 


V^ 


YoiUh  (1902)  comes  next  in  order  amongst  Conrad's 
volumes  of  stories.  There  are  three  tales  in  this 
book— "  Youth,"  "Heart  of  Darkness,"  and  "The 
End  of  the  Tether."  "  Youth  "  itself  is  almost  more 
a  reminiscence  than  a  story  (see  the  previous  chapter 
for  a  discussion  of  the  autobiographical  basis  of  many 
of  Conrad's  stories),  and  almost  more  a  recapture  of 
the  emotions  and  glamour  of  youth  than  a  reminis- 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     51 


cence.  It  is  Mario w  who  tells  the  story  and  it  is  the 
story  of  his  first  voyage  to  the  East,  with  its  countless 
hardships,  with  its  danger  from  storm,  from  fire, 
and  from  shipwreck.  The  indomitable  optimism  and 
romance  of  youth  reveal  themselves  in  every  line  but 
a  vein  of  profound  melancholy  runs  through  this  tale 
of  adventure  and  daring — the  melancholy  of  fond 
recollection  and  of  unappeasable  desire. 

"  Heart  of  Darkness  "  is  a  sombre  story  of  the  dark  7 
forests  of  the  Congo  and  of  the  darker  hearts  of  men. 
Once  more  Mario w  is  the  narrator.  He  tells  us  how 
he  got  a  post  as  Captain  of  a  Congo  steamer  and  how 
he  went  out  to  Africa  and  up  into  the  blind  interior. 
Like  "  Youth,"  this,  too,  reads  as  a  reminiscence  and 
is  extraordinarily  atmospheric.  The  Congo  rises 
before  us  like  an  ominous  and  mystic  spirit ;  and  Mr 
Kurtz,  the  energetic  agent  of  the  great  Company, 
whose  name  is  on  everyone's  mouth  and  whose  heart 
has  been  corrupted  by  the  savage  wilderness,  is  like 
the  embodiment  of  that  lawless  and  unhappy  land. 
Marlowr6n  his  first  arrival,  stays  at  a  depot  within  two 
hundred  miles  of  the  coast,  but  afterwards  he  has  to 
take  his  steamer  up  to  the  far  outposts  of  the  interior. 
It  is  there  that  the  valued  agent,  Mr  Kurtz,  lives — 
that  wonderful  procurer  of  ivory  and  that  eloquent 
exponent  of  unspeakable  rites.  Mario w  is  with  him 
during  his  last  days  and  has  to  break  the  news  of  his 
death  to  the  girl  who  thought  him  the  best  and  most 
enlightened  of  heroes. 

It  is  absurd  to  call  "  The  End  of  the  Tether  "  a 
short  story,  because  it  is  nearly  two  hundred  pages 
long.  It  is  about  a  man  whose  great  love  for  his 
.daughter  is  the  one  thing  remaining  to  him  from 
the  disastrous  chances  of  his  life.  Captain  Whalley 
has  been  rich,  independent,  and  full  of  sober  joy  in 


52  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


existence— but  his  wife  has  died,  his  daughter,  Ivy, 
has  married  and  settled  in  AustraUa,  his  money  has 
nearly  all  been  lost  in  a  bank  smash,  and  he  is  getting 
old.  £500  remains  to  him  from  the  sale  of  his  barque. 
Fair  Maid,  and  this  he  invests  in  a  share  of  the  Sofala 
an  East  Indian  coasting  tramp,  of  which  he  becomes 
Captain.  It  is  only  after  he  has  been  in  her  for  some 
time  that  he  realises  he  is  going  Wind.  The  Sofala 
is  owned  by  the  chief  engineer,  Mr  Massy,  who  had 
won  the  money  for  her  in  a  lottery  and  who  is  now 
again  on  the  verge  of  ruin.  Captain  Whalley  has  told 
no  one  that  he  is  going  blind,  but  Mr  Massy  has  guessed. 
His  is  a  mean,  ferreting,  and  avaricious  nature, 
and  he  is  as  incapable  of  comprehending  the  lofty 
character  of  his  Captain  as  he  is  of  having  an  unselfish 
thought  of  his  own.  In  the  baseness  of  his  heart  he 
plots  to  make  use  of  Captain  Whalley's  advancing 
blindness  for  his  own  purposes.  If  only  he  can  cause 
him  to  run  the  ship  aground  on  the  rocks  of  the  point 
he  \vill  get  the  insurance  money  !  He  succeeds  in 
diverting  the  compass  by  placing  iron  bars  near  it.  It 
is  a  complete  success.  But  Captain  Whalley,  groping 
on  the  bridge  in  the  sudden  complete  darkness  that 
has  descended  upon  his  eyes  in  the  shock  of  striking, 
touches  the  iron  and  knows  all.  x\nd  then  as  he 
mutters  passionately  to  Massy  that  he  "  will  get 
fifteen  years  for  this"  the  other,  choking  with  spite 
and  fear,  whispers  back  that  if  he  goes  to  prison  for 
trying  to  cheat  the  insurance.  Captain  Whalley  will 
lose  his  five  hundred  pounds.  "Captain  Whalley 
did  not  move.  True  !  Ivy's  money  !  Gone  in  the 
wreck.  Again  he  had  a  flash  of  insight.  He  was 
indeed  at  the  end  of  his  tether."  And  fiHing  his 
pocket  with  the  iron  bars,  he  allows  himself  to  sink 
for  ever  with  his  ship. 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     5S 

Youth  is  as  famous  amongst  Conrad's  volumes  of 
stories  as  Lord  Jim  is  amongst  his  novels — and  more 
deservedly  so.  For  it  contains  in  "  Youth  "  the  most 
romantic,  in  **  Heart  of  Darkness  "  the  most  terrible, 
and  in  "  The  End  of  the  Tether  "  the  most  pathetic 
story  Conrad  has  ever  written.  "  Youth,"  itself,  is 
certainly  one  of  the  very  finest  things  in  Conrad, 
a  gorgeous  dream,  a  vision  of  the  rare  and  transient 
illusion  of  youth.  It  is  a  reminiscence  tinged,  as  I 
say,  with  regret  and  made  lyrical  by  the  power  of 
remembrance.  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  like  "  The 
Return,"  suffers  from  exaggeration.  It  is  an  extremely 
impressive  story  but  it  is  almost  over-heavy.  It  is 
positively  too  rich.  As  a  creation  of  atmosphere  it 
is  immense,  as  a  work  of  art  it  leaves  something  to  be 
desired.  (Conrad  has  told  me  that  it  did  not  take  him 
more  than  a  month  to  write.  This,  considering  its 
length  of  over  40,000  words,  is  quite  enough  to  account 
for  its  air  of  haste  and  its  comparative  lack  of  finish.) 
"  The  End  of  the  Tether  "  is  a  very  beautiful  and 
touching  story.  Captain  Whalley,  austere,  upright, 
and  tenderly  thoughtful  for  his  daughter,  is  one  of 
the  most  moving  of  all  Conrad's  characters.  The 
contrast  'twixt  his  self-contained  and  tragic  aloofness 
and  the  petty  spite  of  the  other  officers  is  presented 
in  Conrad's  grandest  manner. 

Typhoon  (1903)  is  Conrad's  third  volume  of  stories. 
It  is  made  up  of  four  tales  : — "  Typhoon,"  "  Amy 
Foster,"  "  Falk,"  "To-morrow."  The  first  and 
longest  of  these  is,  as  its  name  implies,  the  de- 
scription of  a  storm — a  typhoon  in  the  China  Seas. 
In  the  very  idea^of  such  a  story  there  is  Httle  in 
the^way  of  plot.  The  steamship  Nan-Shan,  com- 
manded  by  the  dense  and  stupid  Captain  MacWhirr, 


54  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

is  taking  two  hundred  Chinese  coolies  to  the  treaty 
port  of  Fu-Chau  when  she  runs  into  a  typhoon.  The 
story  is  one  gigantic  description  of  the  fury  of  the  sea 
and  of  the  bravery  of  simple  men.  Captain  Mac  Whirr, 
who,  in  his  unimaginative  ignorance,  disregards  all 
the  symptoms  of  the  approaching  storm,  by  the  sheer 
force  of  his  integrity  and  perseverance  emerges 
triumphant  not  alone  from  the  typhoon  but  from 
the  ugly  after-position  with  the  two  hundred  China- 
men who  believe  that  their  money  has  been  stolen 
from  them.  In  the  storm  itself,  his  first-mate,  the| 
sprightly  and  talkative  Jukes,  has  seconded  him 
courageously,  but  in  the  affair  of  the  coolies  his 
Uvelier  imagination  makes  him  tremble  at  the  pro- 
bable result.  It  is  Captain  MacWhirr  who  is  the 
victor  throughout. 

"  Amy  Foster  "  is  the  story  of  a  dull-witted  but 
compassionate  English  girl  who  falls  in  love  with  a 
strange  man  from  Eastern  Europe.  This  ignorant, 
wild,  and  romantic  peasant  from  the  Carpathian 
Mountains  has  been  cast  up  by  the  sea,  the  only 
survivor  from  an  emigrant  ship  bound  for  America. 
Unable  to  speak  a  word  of  English  and  totally  mystified 
as  to  where  he  is — it  might  have  been  America  or  Hell, 
itself — he  leads  a  wretched  and  hunted  existence  till 
the  chance  kindness  of  Amy  Foster  opens  his  eyes. 
Afterwards  he  becomes  a  farm  labourer  and  marries 
her.  At  first  she  loves  him  with  fascination,  but 
gradually,  after  her  baby  is  born,  her  fascination  turns 
into  horror.  He  falls  ill  and  speaks  to  their  little  son 
in  his  outlandish  tongue,  and  as  he  speaks  she  gazes 
at  him  with  hatred  and  fear.  And  then  she  flees 
with  her  child,  whilst  he,  left  alone,  dies  forlorn  and 
broken-hearted. 

*'  Falk "    is     one     of     Conrad's    Eastern     Tales. 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     55 

(Bankok  is  known  to  be  the  setting  though  the 
name  is  not  given.)  It  is  a  story  within  a 
story.  Falk  is  a  Scandinavian,  a  huge,  silent  man, 
fiercely  and  primitively  devoted  to  life,  who  falls 
passionately  in  love  with  a  young  girl  acting  as 
companion  to  the  wife  of  Captain  Hermann,  a  German 
skipper.  She  is  the  Captain's  niece,  in  point  of  fact. 
Falk  is  the  owner  of  a  tug  that  does  all  the  towing 
up  and  down  this  Eastern  river,  and  while  Captain 
Hermann's  boat,  the  Diana,  is  loading,  he  goes  out 
every  evening  and  sits  on  board  of  her,  gazing  at  the 
girl  and  saying  nothing.  In  everything  he  does  his 
conduct  is,  by  turns,  hesitating  and  autocratic.  He 
is  a  mysterious  man,  in  truth,  through  the  very 
simplicity  of  his  absorption.  In  the  eyes  of  Schom- 
berg,  the  hotel-keeper,  however,  he  is  only  a  contemp- 
tible miser.  But,  indeed,  his  secret  is  two-fold,  a 
gnawing  jealousy  of  a  young  captain  (teller  of  the 
story),  and  the  awful  recollection  that  he  was  once 
compelled  to  eat  human  flesh.  The  jealousy  is  soon 
extinguished,  but  even  so,  before  he  can  ease  his 
conscience  he  has  to  relate  the  story  of  his  misfortune. 
It  is  one  of  these  savage  and  relentless  records  of  the 
sea — the  record  of  a  broken  down  steamer,  of  drifting 
day  after  day,  of  shortage  of  food,  of  madness,  of 
cannibalism,  and  of  the  survival  of  the  strong.  And 
to  the  hint  of  this  story  the  niece,  a  girl  silent  as  Falk 
himself,  listens  with  pity.     She  marries  him. 

"  To-Morrow  "  (it  was  dramatised  under  the  title 
"  One  Day  More  "  and  acted  several  times  in  London 
in  1904,  Chicago  in  1914,  and  in  Paris — this  dramatised 
version  appeared  in  The  English  Review  of  August 
1913)  is  a  story  of  hope  too  long  deferred.  Old 
Captain  Hagberd,  retired  from  the  coasting  trade, 
lives  in  the  little  sea-port  of  Colebrook,  passing  his 


56  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


life  in  the  hope  that  he  may  see  again  his  son,  Harry. 
He  advertises  for  him  in  the  Sunday  papers  and  he 
saves  every  penny  against  his  return.  He  has  even 
filled  his  house  with  furniture  for  his  use,  and  has  even 
chosen  a  wife  for  him — Bessie  Carvil,  daughter  of 
Carvil,  the  blind  boat-builder,  whose  house  adjoins 
his  own.  And  gradually  this  longing  to  see  his  son  has 
changed  into  the  mania  of  senile  decay.  He  believes 
now  that  every  to-morrow  will  bring  him  home. 
And  when,  at  last,  the  real  Harry  does  appear,  the 
old  man  repudiates  him  with  scorn — he  is  not  the  one 
to  be  taken  in  by  imposters,  his  Harry  is  something 
very  different  from  this  "  grinning,  information 
fellow  !  "  Besides,  it  is  to-morrow  he  is  coming  home — 
not  to-day  !  And  so,  with  the  obstinate  assurance  of 
insanity  and  hope,  he  locks  himself  securely  from  the 
importunities  of  a  troublesome  world.  His  Harry 
indeed  !  But  this  is  not  only  the  story  of  Captain 
Hagberd's  delusions,  it  is  the  story  of  Harry  Hagberd, 
the  wanderer,  the  lover  of  pretty  women,  the  fascinat- 
ing and  romantic  scamp,  and  of  Bessie  Carvil,  the 
patient  daughter  of  an  exacting  and  brutal  father. 
Their  swift  love-making  in  the  dusk,  within  sound  of 
the  sullen  waves  and  of  the  voices  of  madness  and 
anger,  is  the  climax  to  this  tale  of  tragic  fate. 

Typhoon  is  a  very  remarkable  book,  not  only  on 
account  of  its  merits  but  also  for  its  great  variety. 
"  Typhoon,"  itself,  is  the  most  prodigious  description 
of  a  storm  in  the  whole  of  literature.  As  a  piece  of 
word-painting  it  is  unrivalled,  and  it  is  at  the  same 
time  a  notable  study  in  psychology  and  contains  some 
of  Conrad's  cleverest  character  drawing  on  a  small 
scale.  "  Amy  Foster,"  on  the  other  hand,  has  the 
sober  atmosphere  of  Conrad's  later  method.  It  reads 
much  more  like  one  of  the  stories  in  A  Set  of  Six  than 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     57 


like  the  other  stories  in  Typhoon.  It  is  a  deUcate, 
faithful,  and  precise  picture.  "  Falk  "  has  the  fertile 
elaboration  of  Conrad's  most  expansive  v/ork.  It  is 
a  study  in  personality  and  atmosphere  that  exhales 
the  warm  breath  of  a  tropical  Eastern  river.  Falk 
himself,  is  a  curious  figure,  and  his  story  remains 
pathetic  in  all  its  gruesomeness.  "To-morrow" 
is  a  very  poignant  study,  and  one  touched  by  the  breath 
of  symbolism.  In  that  it  resembles  "  Typhoon," 
though  neither  "  To-morrow  "  nor  "  Typhoon  "  lack 
at  all  the  substance  of  actuality.  Their  symbolism, 
though  apparent,  is  kept  under  strict  command,  and 
the  realism  of  their  characters  and  of  their  situations 
is  the  first  call  upon  the  reader's  attention.  Of  the 
four  stories  in  Typhoon  these  two  are  the  most 
effective,  though  both  "  Amy  Foster  "  and  "  Falk  " 
are  true  works  of  imagination. 

A  Set  of  Six  (1908)  is  Conrad's  next  collection  of 
stories.  As  the  name  implies  it  consists  of  six  tales — 
"  Caspar  Ruiz,"  "  The  Informer,"  "  The  Brute," 
"  An  Anarchist,"  "  The  Duel,"  and  "  II  Conde." 
The  first,  **  Caspar  Ruiz,"  is  a  story  of  the  South 
American  wars  of  Independence  at  the  beginning  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  Caspar  Ruiz  is  the  son  of  a 
peasant.  He  is  quite  an  illiterate,  but  a  man  of  gentle 
nature  and  of  great  strength.  Pressed  into  the 
army  of  liberation,  he  is  captured  by  the  Spaniards 
and  made  to  fight  in  their  ranks.  Falling  again  into 
the  hands  of  the  liberators  he  is  condemned  to  death 
as  a  traitor,  and  only  escapes  by  the  merest  of  chances. 
He  is  nursed  back  to  life  by  a  Spanish  girl,  whose 
aristocratic  father,  ruined  by  the  rebellion,  has  been 
driven  crazy.  He  falls  in  love  with  her,  and  she 
instils   into   his   heart   her   undying   hatred   of    the 


58  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


liberators.  For  long  he  is  successful,  but  at  last 
he   is  overwhelmed. 

"  The  Informer  "  is  an  anarchist  tale.  It  is  related 
by  Mr  X,  a  famous  epicurean  and  a  coldly  cynical 
hater  of  society.  He  explains  how  they  (the  anar- 
chists in  London)  became  aware  that  in  their  secret 
meetings  some  spy  must  always  have  been  present 
because  their  most  guarded  plans  were  constantly  in 
the  knowledge  of  the  police.  So,  disguised  as  police- 
men, he  and  some  comrades  raid  the  house  of  their 
own  associates,  and  in  the  excitement  of  the  arrests 
discover  the  informer.  He  is  a  fanatic,  a  sincere 
man,  and  impervious  to  every  outside  emotion  but 
that  of  passionate  love.  It  is  through  this,  in  his 
desire  to  protect  a  girl  who  poses  as  an  advanced 
anarchist  (she  is  the  real  centre  of  the  story),  that 
he  gives  himself  away.  In  the  sudden  discovery  of 
tlie  ruse  he  commits  suicide. 

"  The  Brute  "  is  a  tragic  tale  of  the  sea — the  tale 
of  the  ship  Apse  Family  that  kills  a  man  on  every 
voyage.  It  is  the  Apse  Family  that  is  "  the  brute," 
a  ship  deadly  and  comfortable.  This  is  a  story  told 
in  the  tap-room  of  The  Three  Cows  by  a  man  who  had 
sailed  on  her,  and  whose  brother,  Charley,  had  been 
her  chief  mate  at  the  same  time.  On  that  voyage 
there  had  been  no  accident.  In  Sidney  Charley  gets 
engaged  to  the  skipper's  niece,  Maggie  Colchester, 
who  is  with  them  for  the  trip,  and  in  his  great 
happiness  he  takes  the  strictest  care  that  no  disaster 
shall  spoil  the  homeward  passage.  And,  indeed,  all 
goes  well  till  they  are  actually  in  the  Thames.  And 
then,  in  the  hideous  irony  of  fate,  Maggie  Colchester 
is  pulled  overboard  by  the  anchor  and  drowned. 

"  An  Anarchist "  recounts  the  experiences  of  a 
convict  who  has  escaped  on  to  the  mainland  from  the 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     59 

French  penal  colony  off  the  South  American  coast. 
The  convict,  now  engaged  in  looking  after  a  steam- 
launch,  tells  the  story  with  the  innocence  and  resig- 
nation of  a  simple  peasant.  As  a  workman  in  Paris, 
with  good  wages,  he  gave  a  dinner  to  some  of  his 
friends  to  celebrate  his  twenty-fifth  birthday.  All 
of  them  drink  and  then  two  other  men  begin  to  suggest 
to  him  that  the  lives  of  poor  people  are  unbearable. 
He  listens  with  maudlin  and  violent  sympathy. 
And  the  result  of  it  is  that  he  makes  a  disturbance 
and  is  imprisoned.  When  he  comes  out  the  anar- 
chists again  throw  around  him  their  webs.  Unable 
to  make  a  living  now,  he  falls  in  with  their  designs. 
He  is  caught  with  a  bomb  in  his  hand,  and  being 
considered  a  dangerous  criminal,  is  deported  to 
Cayenne.  The  story  of  his  life  there  and  of  his  escape  in 
an  open  boat  with  two  other  wretches,  his  two  original 
tempters,  is  graphically  recited.  When,  at  length,  they 
are  within  hail  of  a  ship,  he  shoots  them  both  dead,  and 
thus  revenges  himself  upon  them  for  all  his  sufferings. 
"  The  Duel  "  is  much  the  longest  story  in  the  book, 
but  it  is  one  of  the  easiest  to  summarise.  It  is  a  tale 
of  the  Napoleonic  wars,  and  concerns  two  men, 
D'Hubert  and  Feraud.  When  the  story  opens  they 
are  both  lieutenants  in  the  French  army  stationed  in 
Strasbourg.  A  trifling  disagreement,  which  is  only 
the  irritation  of  Feraud  at  being  called  out  of  a  lady's 
presence  by  D'Hubert,  who  was  but  obeying  superior 
orders,  leads  to  a  duel,  and  subsequently  to  a  whole 
series  of  duels  lasting  over  a  period  of  fourteen  years 
or  so.  The  kindly  and  indulgent  D'Hubert  is  ever- 
lastingly pursued  by  the  challenges  of  the  emotional 
Feraud.  And,  finally,  D'Hubert,  by  a  stratagem, 
when  he  has  looked  only  for  immediate  death  in  the 
latest  of  the  duels,  brings  it  all  to  a  close  by  giving 


60  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


back  to  Feraud  the  life  that  he  has  forfeited.  But  this 
takes  place  when  they  are  both  generals,  the  hundred 
days  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  the  wars  of  Napoleon 
already  a  memory. 

"  II  Conde  "  is  the  last  of  the  episodes  in  A  Set  of 
Six.  It  is  the  story  of  a  foriegn  Count,  a  refined, 
elderly  aristocrat,  who  is  driven  out  of  Naples  for  ever 
by  the  brutal  behaviour  of  a  young  man.  II  Conde, 
a  man  of  cultured  and  sensitive  mind,  would  sometimes 
go  of  an  evening  to  listen  to  the  band  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Villa  Nazionale.  It  was  there,  while  wandering 
in  the  shady  paths,  that  he  is  accosted  by  a  youngs 
man  who  asks  for  a  light.  II  Conde  puts  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  to  find  a  match,  and  on  glancing  up  he 
sees  that  the  young  man  is  holding  a  sharp  knife  to 
his  stomach.  In  a  grating  and  menacing  voice  he 
demands  his  money.  II  Conde  has  to  disgorge. 
Later  on  that  same  evening  he  meets  him  again  in  a 
restaurant,  and  again  the  man  threatens  him  with  foul 
and  insolent  words.  Such  a  pit  of  infamy,  opening  like 
this  at  his  very  feet  and  full  of  nameless  horrors  for 
the  future,  so  undermines  the  old  man's  peace  of  mind 
that  he  leaves  Naples,  never  to  return  —  although 
he  knows  well  enough  that  there  alone  can  he  find 
the  climate  in  which  he  can  survive  the  chills  of 
winter. 

YThe  six  tales  of  this  book  present  a  striking  change 
in  Conrad's  technique.  Their  atmosphere  of  romance" 
tends  to  the  inward  contemplation  of  a  mood  rather 
than  the  piling  up  of  substantial  effect.  They  are, 
in  many  externals,  very  unlike  this  earUer  work,j  For, 
of  his  previous  tales,  "  Amy  Foster,"  alone,  is  of  the 
genre  of  A  Set  of  Six.  And,  in  fact,  they  do  not  gleam 
with  the  exuberance  of  poetical  emotion — they  are 
restrained,  low-toned,  and   woven  of  a  close   mesh. 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     61 

They  are  the  work  of  an  artist  who  makes  his  points 
out  of  subtleties  rather  than  out  of  romantic  flights.] 
Of  the  individual  stories,  "  Caspar  Ruiz  "  is  hardly 
convincing — especially  in  its  later  phases  ;  "  The 
Informer  "  is  sardonically  icy  ;  "  The  Brute,"  "  An 
Anarchist,"  and  *'  II  Conde  "  are  pathetic,  exciting, 
and  beautifully  proportioned  ;  "  The  Duel  "  is  a  work 
of  wide  imaginative  impulse — a  wonderful  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  Napoleonic  atmosphere.  This  story  is  the 
most  remarkable  in  the  book — the  comparison  between 
D'Hubert  and  Feraud  is  capital,  and  the  whole  idea, 
if  slightly  fantastic,  shows,  at  any  rate,  a  grip  of 
human  foibles  and  jealousy  which  is  really  entertaining. 
As  a  sustained  effort  in  Conrad's  sardonic  later  style 
"  The  Duel  "  is  unmatched. 

Conrad's  most  recent  volume  of  stories  is  'Twixt 
Land  and  Sea  (1912),  and  it  contains  three  tales — 
"  A  Smile  of  Fortune,"  "  The  Secret  Sharer,"  and 
"  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands."  "  A  Smile  of  Fortune  " 
is  a  story  of  a  tropical  isle  (obviously  Mauritius), 
the  story  of  a  captain  who  brings  his  ship  there  and 
falls  straightway  into  the  web  of  a  curious  and  sinister 
drama.  He  comes  in  contact  with  the  two  brothers 
Jacobus  who  are  bitter  enemies.  The  one  who  has 
disowned  his  illegitimate  son  is  universally  respected, 
the  other  who  protects  his  illegitimate  daughter  is 
looked  at  askance.  But  stress  is  not  laid  upon  this 
ironical  position,  and,  apart  from  the  intrigues  of  the 
outcast  Jacobus  (an  inscrutable,  sordid,  and  self- 
sacrificing  man  whose  one  ostensible  motive  in  life 
is  avarice,  but  of  whom  we  half  get  a  secret  and  quite 
different  impression),  the  story  relates,  in  main, 
the  queer  intimacy  between  the  Captain  and  the 
daughter  of  Jacobus.     This  passionate  and  wild  girl 


62  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


suggests  an  underworld  of  emotions,  whose  shadows 
He  darkly  across  the  pages. 

"  The  Secret  Sharer  "  tells  how  a  Captain,  anchored 
in  his  ship  at  the  head  of  the  Gulf  of  Siam,  rescues 
a  murderer  from  the  water  (the  mate  of  another 
boat),  and  hides  him  in  his  cabin,  and  enables  him  to 
escape.  It  has  all  the  excitement  of  a  perilous  adven- 
ture, and  it  is  told  with  such  exactitude  of  detail  and 
in  such  a  thrilling,  secret  manner  (for  the  conversa- 
tions between  the  two  men  are  invariably  carried  on  in 
an  undertone,  and  this  comes  to  pervade  the  whole 
story  as  a  kind  of  twilight)  that  it  reads  very  like  a 
genuine  reminiscence. 

The  third  story,  "  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands," 
is  a  tragic  tale  of  the  Malay  Archipelago.  It  concerns 
four  people,  Captain  Jasper  Allen  of  the  brig  Bonito, 
Freya  Nielsen,  her  father,  and  the  Dutch  lieutenant 
Heemskirk.  Freya  and  Jasper  adore  one  another 
with  the  silent  intensity  of  confident  and  faithful 
natures,  but  grim  destiny  is  lying  in  wait  for  them. 
Heemskirk  is  the  devil  of  the  piece.  His  jealousy 
evolves  a  plan  by  which  the  Bonito  is  wrecked,  and 
with  it  all  Jasper's  chances  of  worldly  success.  And, 
in  the  despair  of  their  lost  hope,  life  swiftly  loosens 
its  hold  upon  the  man  and  the  girl.  It  is  a  story 
opening  in  light  and  closing  in  impenetrable  darkness. 

In  subject  and  technique  these  three  stories  are  a 
return  to  Conrad's  earlier  work  while  they  retain  the 
finish  of  his  later  period.  The  style  is  extremely 
distinguished  and  the  psychology  subtle  without 
being  at  all  overdone.  The  first  of  them,  "  A  Smile 
of  Fortune,"  is  a  very  uncommon  study  in  the  bizarre 
backwaters  of  character.  Both  Jacobus  and  his 
daughter  are  amongst  Conrad's  most  original  figures. 
His  mumbling  reserve  and  her  futile  and  incoherent 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     63 


sorrow,  seem  to  throw  a  heavy  air  of  gloom  into  the 
very  sunlight  of  the  Tropics.  As  for  "  The  Secret 
Sharer,"  that  is  certainly  a  marvellous  creation  in 
atmosphere  aiid4H-4he4isychiilQg5L.oi  the-hurited.  It 
is  convincing,  as  I  have  already  said,  so  convincing  \ 
that  we  feel  we  could  hear  the  dropping  of  a  pin  in  the 
whispered  conversations  of  the  two  men.  Moreover, 
it  has  a  curious  undercurrent.  It  develops,  more  and 
more  strongly,  a  haunting  idea  of  the  discipline  of 
the  sea.  The  last  and  longest  tale,  "  Freya  of  the 
Seven  Islands,"  is,  perhaps,  the  most  painful  Conrad  has  , 
ever  written.  There  is  something  deeply  melancholy  / 
in  this  drama  set  amidst  the  treacherous  splendour 
of  Eastern  Seas.  But  the  nobility  of  such  figures  as 
Freya  and  Jasper  makes  the  story  of  their  defeated 
love  not  alone  melancholy  but  in  the  fullest  degree 
touching. 

I  will  say  a  few  words  now  about  the  two  novels 
in  the  writing  of  which  Conrad  collaborated  with  Ford 
Hueffer.  (There  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  something  especially 
odd  about  this  collaboration,  because  the  abilities 
of  Joseph  Conrad  and  Ford  Hueffer  do  lie  so  obviously 
in  different  lines.  But  perhaps  it  arose  from  their 
common  interest  in  form.)  The  first  of  these  is  The 
Inheritors  (1901) .  As  the  work  bears  very  little  impress 
of  the  touch  of  Conrad  and  as  it  is,  altogether,  of  small 
importance  I  will  treat  it  as  shortly  as  possible. 
It  is  a  fantastic  story  about  a  new  race  of  people, 
dwellers  in  a  fourth  dimension,  who  mix  indistinguish- 
ably  with  ordinary  mortals  and  gradually  oust  them 
from  all  positions  of  supreme  power.  They  are  "  the 
inheritors,"  and  with  their  power,  their  will,  and  their 
disregard  of  feeling  or  honour,  they  are  a  ruthless  and 
repulsive    race.     They    scheme    to    ruin    the    Prime 


64  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Minister  through  ruining  a  German  financier  whom  he 
is  supporting  in  his  plan  for  a  Greenland  railway,  and 
of  course  they  succeed.  The  book  closes  at  the  dawn 
of  their  inheritance  of  the  earth. 

As  I  say,  this  is  a  work  in  a  quite  minor  key.  It  is 
cleverly  written,  but  it  is  without  depth  of  thought 
or  beauty  of  style.  The  internal  evidence  of  Conrad's 
collaboration  is  slight — visible,  indeed,  only  in  the 
negative  qualities  of  proportion  and  restraint. 

Romance  (1903)  stands  on  a  very  different  footing. 
As  far  as  I  can  judge  Conrad  must  have  had  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  the  middle  part  of  this  book.  It 
certainly  glows  with  a  vividness  that  is  all  his  own. 
It  is  a  novel  of  adventure  of  ninety  years  since,  starting 
with  an  exploit  amongst  smugglers  on  the  Kentish 
coast,  and  then  taking  the  young  hero,  John  Kemp, 
to  Jamacia  and  on  to  Cuba  where  he  undergoes 
incredible  hardships  and  dangers,  and  gains  the  love 
of  a  Spanish  girl  of  startling  beauty  and  fabulous 
wealth.  There  are  plots  and  counterplots  on  every 
page,  there  are  murderous  pirates  and  a  still  more 
murderous  Irish  judge  of  the  Havana  Supreme  Court, 
there  are  deaths,  and  there  is  revenge,  and  always 
there  is  danger  and  passionate  love.  I  do  not  attempt 
to  tell  the  story  in  any  detail  because  it  is  a  sheer 
novel  of  adventure,  and  the  glory  of  it  lies  in  its  colour 
and  shifting  lights.  But  I  may  say  finally  that  John 
Kemp,  who  had  to  flee  from  the  "  runners  "  in  the 
Iirst  instance,  is  brought  home  in  irons  on  a  charge  of 
murder  and  piracy  in  Cuba.  That  he  never  com- 
mitted such  atrocities  comes  out,  at  last,  at  his  old 
Hailey  trial  ;  and  the  end  of  it  all  is  that  he  marries 
his  lovely  Seraphina  and  settles  down  to  a  safer  and 
milder  life  in  England. 


CONRAD'S  NOVELS  AND  STORIES     65 


Romance  is,  indeed,  a  work  of  blazing  imagination. 
It  has  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  sheer  story  of 
adventure,  but  its  atmosphere,  unlike  most  of  its 
psychology,  is  not  merely  on  the  surface.  It  is  a 
book  dyed  with  colour  to  the  very  centre  of  its  heart. 
Moreover,  it  is  written  in  a  very  expansive  and  de- 
lightful style  and  contains  many  passages  of  true  power 
and  emotion. 

With  Romance  I  finish  my  resumes  of  Conrad's 
novels  and  stories.  In  one  sense  they  are  like  reviews 
and  may  serve  a  similar  purpose,  but  in  another 
way  they  are  different.  For  in  a  review  the  plot 
should  be  told  by  implication  rather  than  by  direct 
description,  whereas  my  idea  here  has  been  to  outline 
the  idea  of  the  plot  as  simply  and  concisely  as  I  could. 
And  in  a  review  one  tries  to  say  as  much  as  one  con- 
veniently can,  but  in  these  resumes  I  have  purposely 
avoided  the  subtler  points  of  criticism.  And  I  have 
avoided  them  because  I  do  not  wish  to  be  guilty 
of  repetition.  It  is  the  future  chapters  that  are  the 
critical  ones. 

With  these  words  of  self-defence,  and  with  the 
warning  I  gave  at  the  beginning  against  any  assump- 
tion that  this  chapter  is  meant  to  be  of  critical  value, 
I  will  close  this  unvarnished  and  lengthy  examination 
of  the  novels  and  stories  of  Joseph  Conrad. 


CHAPTER  IV 

conrad's    atmosphere 

Conrad  is  one  of  the  great  masters  of  atmosphere — 
that  thing  so  hard  to  define  and  so  easy  to  perceive. 
For  atmosphere  is  not  simply  a  background,  it  is  an 
essence  vitally  affecting  the  spirit  of  a  work.  When 
we  say  that  Velasquez  is  a  master  of  light  oi  Rembrandt 
a  master  of  shadow  we  have  something  in  mind 
more  complex  than  mere  light  or  shadow.  /For 
atmosphere  is,  at  once,  the  ^unconscious  touchstone 
of  personality  and  a  self-conscious  effort  to  create 
a  definite  illusion.  Think,  for  instance,  of  the  poetry 
of  Walt  Whitman — a  most  impressive  example. 
Indeed  atmosphere  permeates  a  work  by  the  sheer 
might  of  imagination.  And  it  is  of  both  these 
conceptions  I  am  thinking  when  I  say  that  Conrad  is 
one  of  the  great  masters  of  atmosphere.  For  with  him 
atmosphere  runs  through  the  entire  range  of  its 
possible  import.  His  persoiiality  is  for  ever  radiating 
itself  through  his  work  ;  I'knd,  as  -for  his  conscious 
creation  of  an  atmosphere,  it  can  either  be  a  de- 
scription of  natural  phenomena  thrown  upon  the 
scene  of  a  tropic  setting  to  heighten  the  sense  of  beauty 
or  corruption,  or  it  can  be  a  brooding  spirit  filling 
with  terror,  with  pity,  or  with  delight  the  whole 
nervous  energy  of  a  story.  For  the  romantic  mind 
is  highly  obscure  and  capable  of  all  kinds  of  double 
experiences.  The  mournful  philosophy  of  Conrad 
is  stamped  by  him  upon  the  wilds  and  upon  men 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  67 

living  in  vain  hope  and  constant  endeavour.  And 
how  valuable  an  artistic  background  it  is.  This 
fatalism  casts  a  glamour  over  these  tropical  forests, 
over  these  enormous  rivers,  over  the  unbroken  silences 
of  the  wilderness.  And  it  gives  to  human  courage  and 
"endurance  an  almost  sublime  nobility.  Look  at 
Captain  MacWhirr  in  Typhoon — a  dense,  unimaginative, 
stupid  man,  a  man  who  would  bore  you  to  death  in 
five  minutes.  And  yet  simply  by  the  force  of  his 
dogged  and  unbending  resistence  to  the  storm  he 
emerges  an  heroic  figure.  There  is  something  epic 
about  Captain  MacWhirr.  I  often  wonder  whether 
Conrad's  real  intention  in  writing  this  story  were  not 
to  show  what  unconquerable  faithfulness  can  accom- 
pUsh,  to  show  that  man  is,  in  a  sense,  superior  to  all 
the  violence  of  the  sea. 

This  interplay  of  mind  and  atmosphere  (if  I  may 
so" call  it)  is  more  noticeable  in  Conrad's  earlier  than 
'■in  his  later  books.  For  in  his  later  books  his  whole 
tone  has  become  more  impersonal — lie  has  stepped 
back  a  little  with  his  own  emotions  and  has  developed 
into  an  ironical  observer  rather  than  into  a  philosopher. 
But  in  his  earlier  work  it  grips  you  overpoweringly. 
His  books  and  his  characters  are  saturated  with  the 
sunlight  and  the  gloom  of  tropical  lands  or  flowing 
seas,  and,  conversely,  the  tropical  lands,  or  the  sea, 
or  even  Northern  winter  nights  take  on  the  beautiful 
or  sinister  aspect  of  the  actors'  minds.  Consider, 
for  instance,  that  strange  story,  ''  The  Return,"  in 
which  the  very  quietness  of  the  house  assumes  a 
morbid  and  fateful  aspect  in  the  brain  of  Alvan 
Hervey.  His  chaotic  emotions  have  invested  the 
discreet  respectability  of  his  home  with  all  the  name- 
less horrors  of  an  Inferno.  Let  me  give  a  typical 
quotation  : — 


68  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


He  saw  her  come  up  gradually,  as  if  ascending  from  a 
well.  At  every  step  the  feeble  flame  of  the  candle  swayed 
before  her  tired,  young  face,  and  the  darkness  of  the  hall 
seemed  to  cling  to  her  black  skn-t,  followed  her,  rising  like 
a  silent  flood,  as  though  the  great  night  of  the  world  had 
broken  through  the  discreet  reserve  of  walls,  of  closed  doors, 
of  curtained  windows.  It  rose  over  the  steps,  it  leaped  up 
the  walls  like  an  angry  wave,  it  flowed  over  the  blue  skies, 
over  the  yellow  sands,  over  the  sunshine  of  landscapes,  and 
over  the  pretty  pathos  of  ragged  innocence  and  of  meek 
starvation.  It  swallowed  up  the  deHcious  idyll  in  a  boat 
and  the  mutilated  immortality  of  famous  bas-reliefs.  It 
flowed  from  outside — it  rose  higher,  in  a  destructive  silence. 
And,  above  it,  the  woman  of  marble,  composed  and  blind  on 
the  high  pedestal,  seemed  to  ward  off  the  devouring  night 
with  a  cluster  of  lights. 

He  watched  the  rising  tide  of  impenetrable  gloom  with 
impatience,  as  if  anxious  for  the  coming  of  a  darkness  black 
enough  to  conceal  a  shameful  surrender.  It  came  nearer. 
The  cluster  of  lights  went  out.  The  girl  ascended  facing  him. 
Behind  her  the  shadow  of  a  colossal  woman  danced  lightly 
on  the  wall.  He  held  his  breath  while  she  passed  by,  noise- 
less and  with  heavy  eyelids.  And  on  her  track  the  flowing 
tide  of  a  tenebrous  sea  filled  the  house,  seemed  to  swirl  about 
his  feet,  and  rising  unchecked,  closed  silently  above  his  head. 

The  time  had  come  but  he  did  not  open  the  door.  All 
was  still ;  and  instead  of  surrendering  to  the  reasonable 
exigencies  of  life  he  stepped  out,  with  a  rebelling  heart,  into 
the  darkness  of  the  house.  It  was  the  abode  of  an  im- 
penetrable night ;  as  though  indeed  the  last  day  had  come 
and  gone,  leaving  him  alone  in  a  darkness  that  has  no  to- 
morrow. And  looming  vaguely  below  the  woman  of  marble, 
livid  and  still  like  a  patient  phantom,  held  out  in  the  night  a 
cluster  of  extinguished  lights.  {Tales  of  Unrest,  "  The 
Return,"  pp.  264-5.) 

And  in  contrast  to  that,  recall  how  Marlov^^  in 
"  Youth"  lays  upon  the  magic  of  the  East  the  still 
more  thrilling  magic  of  youth  and  desire  : — 

And  this  is  how  I  see  the  East.     I  have  seen  its  secret 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  69 


places  and  have  looked  into  its  very  soul ;  but  now  I  see  it 
always  from  a  small  boat,  a  high  outline  of  mountains,  blue 
and  afar  in  the  morning  ;  like  faint  mist  at  noon  ;  a  jagged 
wall  of  purple  at  sunset.  I  have  the  feel  of  the  oar  in  my 
hand,  the  vision  of  a  scorching  blue  sea  in  my  eyes.  And 
I  see  a  bay,  a  wide  bay,  smooth  as  glass  and  polished  like  ice, 
shimmering  in  the  dark.  A  red  light  burns  far  off  upon  the 
gloom  of  the  land,  and  the  night  is  soft  and  warm.  We  drag 
at  the  oars  with  aching  arms,  and  suddenly  a  puff  of  wind, 
a  puff  faint  and  tepid  and  laden  with  strange  odours  of 
blossoms,  of  aromatic  wood,  comes  out  of  the  still  night — 
the  first  sigh  of  the  East  on  my  face.  That  I  can  never 
forget.  It  was  impalpable  and  enslaving,  like  a  charm, 
like  a  whispered  promise  of  mysterious  delight.  {Youth, 
"  Youth,"  pp.  41-2.) 

There,  surely,  is  the  very  reaction  of  temperament 
and  atmosphere. 

And  Conrad,  Hke  many  other  great  writers,  Hke 
Shakespeare  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Shelley  in 
numerous  lyrics.  Whitman  in  prose  and  poetry, 
Meredith  in  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  impresses 
this  singular  image  of  a  sentient  nature  upon  the 
intimate  moments  of  passionate  love  or  passionate 
regret.  There  is  a  wonderful  instance  of  this  in  "  To- 
morrow," where  Bessie  Carvil  is  talking  in  the  dark 
to  the  stranger  who  has  awakened  in  her  so  suddenly 
the  stirrings  of  romance  : — 

Again  he  stooped  silently  to  hear  better ;  and  the  deep 
night  buried  everything  of  the  whispering  woman  and  the 
attentive  man,  except  the  familiar  contiguity  of  their 
faces,  with  its  air  of  secrecy  and  caress."  {Typhoon,  "  To- 
morrow," p.  288.) 

.-  In  its  suggestion  of  mysterious  enticement  this 
Vhole  scene  is  thrilling.  And,  indeed,  that  is  precisely 
-*what  Conrad's  atmosphere  isr— it  is  thrilling.     That 


70  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


M 


is  one  of  the  main  reasons  why  Nostromo  is  so  extra- 
ordinary. To  me  there  is  something  almost  terribly 
thrilling  in  the  idea  of  the  Placid  Gulf  with  the  three 
little  islands  lying  on  its  fringe  shutting  in  Sulaco  from 
the  sea-breezes,  of  the  sierras  capped  by  "  the  snows 
of  Higuerota."  And,  almost  more  than  in  any  of  his 
books,  is  the  atmosphere  of  Nostromo  obtained  by  a 
cumulative  effect — a  sustained  and  subtle  inter-action 
,j  of  the  physical  and  the  spiritual  characteristics  of  the 
land  and  its  people.  In  Nostromo  Conrad  hardly 
ever  uses  the  obvious  suggestions  of  fatalism  presented 
by  the  exuberance  or  callousness  of  nature  (partly, 
no  doubt,  because  he  is  writing  of  an  unfamiliar  world), 
and  his  touch  is  altogether  lighter.  The  result  is 
that,  whereas  his  positive  descriptions  lack  in  their 
beautiful  ease,  a  certain  grandeur,  the  whole  emotion 
of  the  book  is  intensely  profound  and  thrilling.  But 
let  me  give  one  example  of  Conrad's  manner  in 
Nostromo  : — 

The  declining  sun  had  shifted  the  shadows  from  west 
to  cast  amongst  the  houses  of  the  town.  It  had  shifted 
them  upon  the  whole  extent  of  the  immense  Campo,  with 
the  white  walls  of  its  haciendas  on  the  knolls  dominating 
the  green  distances  ;  with  its  grass-thatched  ranchos  crouch- 
ing in  the  folds  of  ground  by  the  banks  of  streams  ;  with  the 
dark  islands  of  clustered  trees  on  a  clear  sea  of  grass,  and  the 
precipitous  range  of  the  Cordillera,  immense  and  motionless, 
emerging  from  the  billows  of  the  lower  forests  like  the  barren 
coast  of  a  land  of  giants.  The  sunset  rays  striking  the  snow- 
slope  of  Higuerota  from  afar  gave  it  an  air  of  rosy  youth, 
while  the  serrated  mass  of  distant  peaks  remained  black, 
as  if  calcined  in  the  fiery  radiance.  The  undulating  surface 
of  the  forest  seemed  powdered  with  pale  gold  dust ;  and 
away  there,  beyond  Rincon,  hidden  from  the  town  by  two 
wooded  spurs,  the  rocks  of  the  San  Tome  gorge,  with  the  flat 
wall  of  the  mountain  itself  crowned  by  gigantic  ferns,  took 
on  warm  tones  of  brown  and  yellow,  with  red  rusty  streaks, 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  tl 

and  the   dark  green  clumps   of  bushes  in  crevices.    (Nos- 
iromo,  p.  332.) 

Nostromo,  I  repeat  once  more,  is  Conrad's  most 
astonishing  achievement.  When  we  realise  that  he 
evolved  this  whole  panorama,  so  complete  and  multi- 
fold, from  the  descriptions  in  an  old  book  of  his  child- 
hood and  from  two  flying  visits  to  South  American 
ports — visits  extending,  perhaps,  to  twelve  hours  in  all 
— we  feel  how  boundless  are  the  limits  of  imagina- 
tion. For  Costaguana  lives  before  us  in  the  very 
poetry  of  a  marvellous  realism.  I  know  that  Western 
coast  slightly,  from  Panama  down  to  Callao,  and  I 
can  only  assert  that  Costaguana  is  a  perfect  re-creation 
of  the  atmosphere  of  a  South  American  Republic 
of  the  Ecquadorian  kind  (a  cooler  Equador,  let  us 
say),  perfect  in  its  delicate  and  just  perception  both 
of  the  character  of  the  country  and  the  character  of 
the  population.  I  call  Nostromo  one  of  the  most 
tremendous  books  I  have  ever  read.  It  is  the  great 
example  of  Conrad's  vast  capacity  for  building  up 
the  very  illusion  of  reality  out  of  practically  nothing. 

And  talking,  as  we  were  a  moment  ago,  of  thrilling 
descriptions,  observe  how  he  pictures  the  tropics  of 
Africa  and  the  East.  They  are  like  a  hashish  vision — 
a  loveliness  tinged  with  poison.  Who  could  deny  that 
such  a  story  as  "  Youth  "  has  the  quality  of  a  dream 
which,  realised  for  an  instant,  departs  for  ever  ?  This 
is  how  Marlow  sees  the  East  for  the  first  time  : — 

The  scented  obscurity  of  the  shore  was  grouped  into 
vast  masses,  a  density  of  colossal  clumps  of  vegetation, 
probably — mute  and  fantastic  shapes.  And  at  their  foot 
the  semicircle  of  a  beach  gleamed  faintly,  like  an  illusion. 
There  was  not  a  light,  not  a  stir,  not  a  sound.  The  mysterious 
East  faced  me,  perfumed  like  a  flower,  silent  like  death,  dark 
hke  a  grave.    {Youth,  "  Youth,"  p.  42-) 


12  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


In  "  Heart  of  Darkness  "  Conrad  portrays  the  might 
of  the  jungle.  You  can  almost  sniff  the  "  primeval 
mud  "  of  the  Congo  : — 

The  great  wall  of  vegetation,  an  exuberant  and  entangled 
mass  of  trunks,  branches,  leaves,  boughs,  festoons,  motion- 
less in  the  moonlight,  was  like  a  rioting  invasion  of  soundless 
life,  a  rolHng  wave  of  plants,  piled  up,  crested,  ready  to 
topple  over  the  creek,  to  sweep  every  little  man  of  us  out 
of  his  little  existence.  (Youth,  "  Heart  of  Darkness," 
p.  98.) 

The  fact  is,  Conrad  has  an  amazing  comimnd  of 
language — very  moving,  fateful,  and  poetical.  Just 
read  a  description  like  the  following.  I  give  it  because 
it  shows  his  power  of  words  in  full  accord  with  his 
capability  for  creating  an  atmosphere  : — 

Razumov  stamped  his  foot — and  under  the  soft  carpet 
of  snow  felt  the  hard  ground  of  Russia,  inanimate,  cold, 
inert,  like  a  sullen  and  tragic  mother  hiding  her  face  under  a 
winding-sheet — his  native  soil ! — his  very  own — without  a 
fireside,  without  a  heart ! 

He  cast  his  eyes  upwards  and  stood  amazed.  The  snow 
had  ceased  to  fall,  and  now,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  he  saw  above 
his  head  the  clear  black  sky  of  the  northern  winter,  decorated 
with  the  sumptuous  fires  of  the  stars.  It  was  a  canopy  fit 
for  the  resplendent  purity  of  the  snows. 

Razumov  received  an  almost  physical  impression  of  end- 
less space  and  of  countless  millions. 

He  responded  to  it  with  the  readiness  of  a  Russian  who 
is  born  to  an  inheritance  of  space  and  numbers.  Under  the 
sumptuous  immensity  of  the  sky,  the  snow  covered  the  endless 
forests,  the  frozen  rivers,  the  plains  of  an  immense  countr}^, 
obliterating  the  landmarks,  the  accidents  of  the  ground, 
levelHng  everything  under  its  uniform  whiteness,  like  a 
monstrous  blank  page  awaiting  the  record  of  an  inconceivable 
history.    (Under  Western  Eyes,  pp.  30-1.) 

Very  splendid.     Indeed,  there  is  no  one  who  can 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  73 

write  such  prose-poetry,  not  the  usual  prose-poetry 
of   word-painting    alone,    but    descriptions    of   great     - 
beauty    infused    with    a     sort    of    melancholy — the 
"melancholy  of  the  wilds,   of  the  sea-wastes,   of  the 
craving  heart   of  man.     I  would  like  to   give   here 
two    supreme    instances    of    what    I     mean  —  both 
from  Lord  Jim.     I  cannot  help  thinking  they  must  / 
be  the  most  magnificent  things  of  their  kind  ever  /=* 
written  : —  j 

,}A  marvellous  stillness  pervaded  the  world,  and  the  stars, 
together  with  the  serenity  of  their  rays,  seemed  to  shed 
I  upon  the  earth  the  assurance  of  everlasting  security.  The 
/  young  moon  recurved,  and  shining  low  in  the  west,  was  like 
a  slender  shaving  thrown  up  from  a  bar  of  gold,  and  the 
Arabian  Sea,  smooth  and  cool  to  the  eye  like  a  sheet  of  ice, 
extended  its  perfect  level  to  the  perfect  circle  of  a  dark  horizon.^ 

le  propeller  turned  without  a  check,  as  though  its  beat 
had  been  part  of  the  scheme  of  a  safe  universe  ;  and  on 
each  side  of  the  Patna  two  deep  folds  of  v/ater,  permanent 
and  sombre  on  the  unwrinkled  shimm.er,  enclosed  within 
their  straight  and  diverging  ridges  a  few  white  swirls  of 
foam  bursting  in  a  low  hiss,  a  few  wavelets,  a  few  ripples,  a 
few  undulations  that,  left  behind,  agitated  the  surface  of  the 
sea  for  an  instant  after  the  passage  of  the  ship,  subsided 
splashing  gently,  calmed  down  a;:  last  into  the  circular 
stillness  of  water  and  sky  with  the  black  speck  of  the  moving 
hull  remaining  everlastingly  in  its  centre.  {Lord  Jim, 
pp.  16-7.) 

The  thin  gold  shaving  of  the  moon  floating  slowly  down- 
wards had  lost  itself  on  the  darkened  surface  of  the  waters, 
and  the  eternity  beyond  the  sky  seemed  to  come  down 
nearer  to  the  earth,  with  the  augmented  glitter  of  the  stars, 
with  the  more  profound  sombreness  in  the  lustre  of  the  half- 
transparent  dome  covering  the  flat  disc  of  an  opaque  sea. 
The  ship  moved  so  smoothly  that  her  onward  motion  was 
imperceptible  to  the  senses  of  men,  as  though  she  had  been 
a  crowded  planet  speeding  through  the  dark  spaces  of  ether 
behind  the  swarm  of  suns,  in  the  appalling  and  calm  solitudes 


n  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

awaiting   the  breath  of  future  creations.    {Lord  Jim,  pp. 

21-2.) 

'^  Conrad's  astonishing  power  of  visualisation  is  shown 
in  such  pictures,  a  power  here  used  poetically,  but 
always  evident  in  his  capacity  for  grasping  an  atmos- 
phere, and  grasping  it  so  strongly  that  he  makes  it  not 
only  real  at  the  moment  of  description  but  pervasive 
all  through  the  narrative.  For  his  characters  do  seem 
to  stand  against  a  background  that  wields  a  charm 
over  them.  And  they  gain  an  added  reality  from  it, 
because  they  justify  so  completely  a  sense  of  fitness. 
Their  reality  is  precisely  of  the  genre  their  setting 
demands.  Thus,  in  Nostromo,  a  figure  like  Sotillo, 
the  cruel,  greedy,  and  cowardly  colonel  of  the 
Esmeralda  regiment,  has  a  type  of  mind  impossible 
outside  of  a  certain  class  of  debased  and  ignorant 
South  American — a  veneer  of  polish  covering  a  bar- 
barous blackness  of  the  heart.  <And  thus,  in  The 
Secret  Agent,  the  incoherent  and  troubled  intelligence 
of  Mr  Verloc  is  like  a  shadow  of  his  incoherent  and 
troubled  world. 

The  Secret  Agent  is,  indeed,  one  of  Conrad's  real 
triumphs  in  atmosphere.  How  exactly  it  suggests 
the  squalid,  the  sordid  neglect  of  Mr  Verloc's  shop, 
and  how  well  it  gives  at  a  glance  the  whole  spirit  of 
the  underground  and  compromising  life  of  the 
anarchists  : — 

The  window  contained  photographs  of  more  or  less  un- 
dressed dancing  gids ;  nondescript  packages  in  wrappers 
like  patent  medicines  ;  closed  yellow  paper  envelopes,  very 
flimsy,  and  m.arked  two-and-six  in  heavy  black  figures ; 
a  few  numbers  of  ancient  French  comic  publications  hung 
across  a  string  as  if  to  dry  ;  a  dingy  blue  china  bowl,  a  casket 
of  black  wood,  bottles  of  marking  ink,  and  rubber  stamps ; 
a   few  books,  with  titles  hinting  at  impropriety  ;    a  few 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  75 

apparently  old  copies  of  obscure  newspapers,  badly  printed, 
with  titles  like  The  Torch,  Tke  Gong — rousing  titles.  And 
the  two  gas  jets  inside  the  panes  were  always  turned  low, 
either  for  economy's  sake  or  for  the  sake  of  the  customers. 
{The  Secret  Agent,  pp.  1-2.) 

'  /I  may  be  blamed  for  giving  so  many  specimens 
'/of  Conrad's  prose,  but  I  give  them  because  they  are 
\  indeed  significant.  For  they  are  the  very  emanation 
of  his  changing  moods — -the  moods  that  enwrap 
with  their  filmy  and  invisible  bonds  the  different 
novels  and  stories  of  Joseph  Conrad.  For  to  Conrad, 
the  creation  of  an  atmosphere,  whether  that  atmos- 
phere be  mainly  physical  as  in  his  earlier  work  or 
mainly  spiritual  as  in -his  later  work,  is  his  first  and  all- 
important  care.  rFor  remember  that  every  one  of 
Conrad's  characters  is  not  only  a  personality  but  is 
definitely  part  of  the  structure  of  the  book — part 
of  the  whole  effect ;  and  as  to  the  effect,  Conrad  is 
for  ever  paving  the  way  to  it — he  is  tireless  in  building 
up  the  semblance  of  an  inevitable  reality. ;  In  other 
words,  his  approach  to  om\  sympathies  is  largely 
through  the  medium  of  an  intensely  imagined  atmos- 
gheg^.  Indeed,  Conrad's  theory  would  seem  to  be 
tliis,  that  without  atmosphere  there  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  veritability.  He  imagines  a  definite  scene 
and  situation,  a  definite  group  of  figures,  and  he  has 
to  make  them  as  alive  to  us  as  they  are  to  him.  That 
is  the  v/hole  object  of  his  art.  The  surrounding  air 
in  which  he  envelops  his  stories  is. the  reflection  of  his 
own  clear  and  visionary  grasp.  His  figures  are  as 
,  much  part  of  his  atmosphere  as  is  the  external  world. 
The  high  beauty  of  his  landscapes,  the  high  reality 
of  his  characters,  are,  ahke,  the  creation  of  one  mood. 
And  though  his  moods  do  vary  enormously  they  always 
aim  towards  a  similar  effect — the  fixing  in  the  minds 


76  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

of  his  readers  of  that  illusion  which  he  has  in  his  own 

mind.     It  is  because  his  imagination  is  profound  that 

his   atmosphere   is   arresting.     It   is   the   vessel   into 

which  he  pours  the  detail  of  his  idea — a  metaphor 

which  may  be  followed  up  by  observing  that  if  the  vessel 

were  so  much  as  to  crack  then   out   it   would   sHp. 

Conrad's  victory   is  in   the   vividness   and   constant 

reality  of  his  moods.     Think,  for  instance,  of  a  story 

Hke    "  The   Secret    Sharer. 'V_JW]ial_could_^    more 

extraordinary  than  the  whispering  suspense  that  fills 

it  ?     It  is  so  true,  so  unfaltering,  that  it  grows  into  a 

heavy,  breathless  weight  upon  the  life  of  the  whole 

ship.     His  atmosphere  is  indeed  at  times  so  strong 

with  the  menace  of  disaster  or  the  promise  of  delight 

that  it  becomes  acutely  oppressive.     Think  of  "  Heart 

of  Darkness "  where  the  repetition   of  Mr   Kurtz's 

name  echoing  like  a  refrain  through  the  savage  heart 

of  the  wilderness  gives  a  dream-like  and  legendary 

emotion  to  the  whole  experience,  or  of  "  To-morrow  " 

where  the  defeat  of  love  and  hope  is  symbolic  of  all 

the  lost  romance  of  illusion,  or  of  "  Youth  "  where 

the  reality  of  a  gorgeous  ideal  is  tinged  by  the  glowing 

colours  of  adventure,  or  of  '*  A  Smile  of  Fortune  " 

where  the  dark  isolation  of  the  garden  throws  its 

mantle  of  exotic  perfume  and  desire  over  the  seated 

figure  of  the  girl,  or  of  "  The  Return "  where  the 

disruption  of  a  belief  fills  the  house  with  the  deadly 

whispers  of  despair  and  horror.     And  who  has  imagined 

the   spirit   of  tragic   fate   more   convincingly  ?     One 

reads  "  The  End  of  the  Tether  "  or  "  Freya  of  the 

Seven  Islands  "  with  a  feeling  of  grave  uneasiness.     In 

fact,  the  uneasiness  is  almost  too  terrible  in  the  second 

of  these  tales.     One  can  just  bear  the  pathos  of  "  The 

End  of  the  Tether  "  as  one  can  just  bear  the  pathos  of 

Dostoievsky's  Poor  Folk  but  the  anguish  of  "  Freya 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  77 


of  the  Seven  Islands  "  is  like  the  anguish  of  Turgenev's 

The  Torrents  of  Spring  or  of  Shakespeare's  Othello 

inconsolable,  agonising.     Such  stories  lacerate  within 
us  the  very  roots  of  indignant  pity. 

"And  then  again,  as  I  say  later  on  in  my  chapter  on 
irony,  Conrad  can  invest  a  whole  book  with  a  spirit 
of  irony,  which  is  a  very  real  atmosphere — an  atmos- 
phere enclosing,  as  it  were,  another  atmosphere. 
The  Secret  Agent,  of  course,  is  the  classic  example  of 
this. 

And  I  should  like  to  point  out  here  a  curious  thing 
about  writers  whose  sense  of  atmosphere  is  so  tremen- 
dous— a  thing  exemplified  very  clearly  in  Conrad's^ 
work — and  that   is,   not   only  that   their  realism  is 
often  touched  by  a   symbohc  significance  but  that 
tHis  symbolic  significance  does  not  undermine  their 
realism;  but   gives   it,    on   the   contrary,    an  added  / 
suppleness.     Symbolic  writing  that  has  its  founda-  -| 
tions    in    symbolism    rather    than    in    atmosphere,'^ 
produces,  as  every  one  knows,  a  dream-effect  totally 
unrelated  to  realism,  but  symbolism  arising  from  an 
overwhelming    sense    of    atmosphere    has    the    lyric  / 
quality  of  high  reality.     We  can  note  this,  as  I  wilL' 
show  in  my  chapter  on  Conrad's  men,  in  such  people 
as  Captain  Mac  Whirr  (just  imagine  what  Yeats  or 
Maeterlinck  would  have  made  of  Captain  MacWhirr  !) , 
young  Marlow,   Harry  Hagberd,   old  Singleton,   and 
so  on  ;    and  in  regard  to  places,  things,  events,  it  is 
equally    visible.     Consider,     for    instance,     Conrad's 
attitude  towards  the  sea  and  ships.     No  one  could 
deny  that  it  is  an  attitude  fraught  with  symbolism. 
You  may  even  call  it  the  "  pathetic  fallacy  "  if  you 
choose — names  do  not  matter.     For  to  Conrad  the 
sea  is  the  glorious,  fickle,   and  relentless  master  of 
sailors'  lives — a  being  at  once  immortal  and  change- 


78  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

able  ;  while  ships  are  trusty  and  enduring,,  friends 
imS'ued  with  the  faith,  the  weakness,  and  the  charm 
of  beautiful  women.  But  what  I  want  to  emphasise 
here  is  that  this  symbolic  view  is  not  in  the  „  least 
divorced  from  reahsm.  No  one  has  created  jnore 
convincingly  the  magic  of  the  sea.  His  descriptions 
throb  with  the  very  sweep  of  its  waves,  with  the  very 
illusion  of  its  calms.  But  his  seas  are  real,  his  ships 
are  real,  and  the  whole  life  of  sailors  is  portrayed  with 
the  uttermost  depth  of  poetical  reality.  The  august 
splendour  of  the  sea  is  enshrined  for  ever  in  Conrad's 
stories.  ( For  if,  in  his  descriptions  of  the  hearts  of 
men  or 'the  wilds  of  forests  or  the  streets  of  cities, 
there  creeps  often  a  sense  of  weariness,  of  futility, 
and  of  discouragement,  in  his  descriptions  of  the  sea 
and  of  its  life  there  shines  a  perennial  freshness  and 
joy.  I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  a  few  examples 
of  this.  And  first  I  shall  quote  fiom  The  Mirror  of 
the  Sea,  a  comparatively  little-known  book  of  great 
beauty,  into  which  Conrad  has  thrown  all  his  passionate 
love  of  seas  and  ships.  And  the  passage  I  shall 
quote  does  not  praise  the  sea  as  noble  in  itself,  but 
praises  its  nameless  attraction  and  the  faithful  ships 
that  gird  it  from  pole  to  pole  : — • 

For  all  that  has  been  said  of  the  love  that  certain  natures 
(on  shore)  have  professed  to  feel  for  it,  for  all  the  celebrations 
it  has  been  the  object  of  in  prose  and  song,  the  sea  has  never 
been  friendly  to  man.  At  most  it  has  been  the  accomplice 
of  human  restlessness,  and  playing  the  part  of  dangerous 
abettor  of  world-wide  ambitions.  Faithful  to  no  race  after 
the  manner  of  the  kindly  earth,  receiving  no  impress  from 
valour  and  toil  and  self-sacrifice,  recognising  no  finality  of 
dominion,  the  sea  has  never  adopted  the  cause  of  its  masters 
Hke  those  lands  where  the  victorious  nations  of  mankind  have 
taken  root,  rocking  their  cradles  and  setting  up  their  grave- 
stones.    He— man  or  people— who,  putting  his  trust  in  the 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  79 


friendship  of  the  sea,  neglects  the  strength  and  cunning  of 
his  right  hand,  is  a  fool  !  As  if  it  were  too  great,  too  mighty 
for  common  virtues,  the  ocean  has  no  compassion,  no  faith, 
no  law,  no  memory.  Its  fickleness  is  to  be  held  true  to  men's 
purposes  only  by  an  undaunted  resolution  and  by  a  sleepless, 
armed,  jealous  vigilance,  in  which,  perhaps,  there  has  always 
been  more  hate  than  love.  Odi  ei  amo  may  well  be  the  con- 
fession of  those  who  consciously  or  blindly  have  surrendered 
their  existence  to  the  fascination  of  the  sea.  All  the  tem- 
pestuous passions  of  mankind's  young  days,  the  love  of  loot 
and  the  love  of  glory,  the  love  of  adventure  and  the  love  of 
danger,  with  the  great  love  of  the  unknown  and  vast  dreams 
of  dominion  and  power,  have  passed  like  images  reflected 
from  a  mirror,  leaving  no  record  upon  the  mysterious  face  ' 
of  the  sea.  Impenetrable  and  heartless,  the  sea  has  given 
nothing  of  itself  to  the  suitors  for  its  precarious  favours. 
Unlike  the  earth,  it  cannot  be  subjugated  at  any  cost  of 
patience  or  toil.  For  all  its  fascination  that  has  lured  so  , 
many  to  a  violent  death,  its  immensity  has  never  been  loved 
as  the  m.ountains,  the  plains,  the  desert  itself,  have  been 
loved.  Indeed,  I  suspect  that,  leaving  aside  the  protestations 
and  tributes  of  writers  who,  one  is  safe  in  saying,  care  for 
little  else  in  the  world  than  the  rhythm  of  their  lines  and  the 
cadence  of  their  phrase,  the  love  of  the  sea,  to  which  some 
men  and  nations  confess  so  readily,  is  a  complex  sentiment 
wherein  pride  enters  for  much,  necessity  for  not  a  little, 
and  the  love  of  ships — the  untiring  servants  of  our  hopes 
and  our  self-esteem — for  the  best  and  most  genuine  part. 
{The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,  pp.  21 1-3.) 

AndMthe._.iiext- 1   shall  quote  from   that   sea-epic, (^^ 

The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  : —  V  v^ 

'  ■  ^  ~>, 

■    The  declining  moon  drooped  sadly  in  the  western  board 
as  if  withered  by  the  cold  touch  of  a  pale  dawn.     The  ship 
slept.     And    the    immortal    sea    stretched    away,    immense 
and  hazy,  like  the  image  of  life,  with  a  glittering  surface  and      i 
lightless    depths ;      promising,    empty,    inspiring — terrible.     ^ 
{The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus/'  pp.  230-1.) 

And  then  from  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands  : — 


80  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

The  sea,  perhaps  because  of  its  saltness,  roughens  the 
outside  but  keeps  sweet  the  kernel  of  its  servants'  soul.  The 
old  sea  ;  the  sea  of  many  years  ago,  whose  servants  were 
devoted  slaves  and  went  from  youth  to  age  or  to  a  sudden 
grave  without  needing  to  open  the  book  of  life,  because  they 
could  look  at  eternity  reflected  on  the  element  that  gave  the 
life  and  dealt  the  death.  Like  a  beautiful  and  unscrupulous 
woman,  the  sea  of  the  past  was  glorious  in  its  smiles,  irresistible 
in  its  anger,  capricious,  enticing,  illogical,  irresponsible  ;  a 
thing  to  love,  a  thing  to  fear.  It  cast  a  spell,  it  gave  joy,  it 
lulled  gently  into  boundless  faith ;  then  with  quick  and 
causeless  anger  it  killed.  But  its  cruelty  was  redeemed  by 
the  charm  of  its  inscrutable  mystery,  by  the  immensity  of 
its  promise,  by  the  supreme  witchery  of  its  possible  favour. 
(Aji  Outcast  of  the  Islands,  p.  13.) 

And  for  a  picture  of  another  kind — I  think  the 
following  description  is  unapproachable  : — 

Next  morning,  at  daylight,  the  Narcissus  went  to  sea. 

A  slight  haze  blurred  the  horizon.  Outside  the  harbour 
the  measureless  expanse  of  smooth  water  lay  sparkling  like 
a  floor  of  jewels,  and  as  empty  as  the  sky.  The  short  black 
tug  gave  a  pluck  to  windward,  in  the  usual  way,  then  let  go 
the  rope,  and  hovered  for  a  moment  on  the  quarter  with 
her  engines  stopped  ;  while  the  slim,  long  hull  of  the  ship 
moved  ahead  slowly  under  lower  topsails.  The  loose  upper 
canvas  blew  out  in  the  breeze  with  soft  round  contours, 
resembling  small  white  clouds  snared  in  the  maze  of  ropes. 
Then  the  sheets  were  hauled  home,  the  yards  hoisted,  and 
the  ship  became  a  high  and  lonely  pyramid,  gliding,  all 
shining  and  white,  through  the  sunlit  mist.  The  tug  turned 
short  round  and  went  away  towards  the  land.  Twenty-six 
pairs  of  eyes  watched  her  low  broad  stern  crawling  languidly 
over  the  smooth  swell  between  the  two  paddle-wheels  that 
turned  fast,  beating  the  water  with  fierce  hurry.  She  re- 
sembled an  enormous  and  aquatic  blackbeetle,  surprised  by 
the  light,  overwhelmed  by  the  sunshine,  trying  to  escape 
with  ineffectual  effort  into  the  distant  glooin  of  the  land. 
She  left  a  lingering  smudge  of  smoke  on  the  sky,  and  two 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  8l 

vanishing  trails  of  foam  on  the  water.  On  the  place  where 
she  had  stopped  a  round  black  patch  of  soot  remained,  un- 
dulating on  the  swell — an  unclean  mark  of  the  creature's 
rest. 

The  Narcissus  left  alone,  heading  south,  seemed  to  stand 
resplendent  and  still  upon  the  restless  sea,  under  the  moving 
sun.  Flakes  of  foam  swept  past  her  sides  ;  the  water  struck 
her  with  flashing  blows ;  the  land  glided  away,  slowly 
fading ;  a  few  birds  screamed  on  motionless  wings  over  the 
swaying  mastheads.  But  soon  the  land  disappeared,  the  birds 
went  away  ;  and  to  the  west  the  pointed  sail  of  an  Arab 
dhow  running  for  Bombay,  rose  triangular  and  upright 
above  the  sharp  edge  of  the  horizon,  lingered,  and  vanished 
like  an  illusion.  Then  the  ship's  wake,  long  and  straight, 
stretched  itself  out  through  a  day  of  immense  solitude.  The 
setting  sun,  burning  on  the  level  of  the  water,  flamed  crimson 
below  the  blackness  of  heavy  rain  clouds.  The  sunset  squall, 
coming  up  from  behind,  dissolved  itself  into  the  short  deluge 
of  a  hissing  shower.  It  left  the  ship  glistening  from  trucks 
to  waterline,  and  with  darkened  sails.  She  ran  easily  before 
a  fair  monsoon,  with  her  decks  cleared  for  the  night ;  and, 
moving  along  with  her,  was  heard  the  sustained  and  mono- 
tonous swishing  of  the  waves,  mingled  with  the  low  whispers 
of  men  mustered  aft  for  the  setting  of  watches ;  the  short 
plaint  of  some  block  aloft ;  or,  now  and  then,  a  loud  sigh  of 
wind.    {The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus,''  pp.  38-40.) 

/iBut  I  must  not  let  these  grand  passages  lure  me 
^rom  the  purpose  of  my  book.  I  will  give  but  one 
]  more  quotation  about  ships— and  in  no  other  passage 
!  of  Conrad  is  the  alembic  of  their  mysterious  appeal 
Vnore  exquisitely  embalmed  : — 

The  brig's  business  was  on  uncivilised  coasts,  with  obscure 
rajahs  dwelling  in  nearly  unknown  bays ;  with  native 
settlements  up  mysterious  rivers  opening  their  sombre, 
forest-lined  estuaries  among  a  welter  of  pale  green  reefs 
and  dazzling  sand-banks,  in  lonely  straits  of  calm  blue  water 
all  aglitter  with  sunshine.  Alone,  far  from  the  beaten 
,       tracks,  she  glided,  all  white,  round  dark,  frowning  headlands, 

F 


82  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


stole  out,  silent  like  a  ghost,  from  behind  points  of  land 
stretching  out  all  black  in  the  moonlight ;  or  lay  hove-to, 
like  a  sleeping  sea-bird,  under  the  shadow  of  some  nameless 
mountain  waiting  for  a  signal  She  would  be  glimpsed 
suddenly  on  misty,  squally  days  dashing  disdainfully  aside 
the  short  aggressive  waves  of  the  Java  Sea  ;  or  be  seen  far, 
far  away,  a  tiny  dazzling  white  speck  flying  across  the  brood- 
ing purple  masses  of  thunderclouds  piled  up  on  the  horizon. 
{Twixt  land  and  Sea,  "  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands,"  p.  189.) 

"And  it  is  in  such-wise,  though  indeed  with  a  hundred 
variations,  that  the  life  of  the  sea  and  of  ships  appears 
^to  Conrad.  It  is  a  passion  which  pulses  in  the  very 
heart  of  his  books,  imparting  to  them,  amidst  the 
cynical  aspects  of  his  philosophy,  a  real  fervour  of 
remembrance.  It  is  the  rejuvenating  atmosphere  of 
the  sea  that  gives  to  Conrad's  most  typical  work  its 
everlasting  appeal. 

But,  of  course,  we  have  to  remember  that  Conrad 
has  an  intimate  feeling  for  the  sea,  which  must  be 
accepted  as  such.  It  colours  his  w^ork  almost  as  a 
recognised  bias  colours  the  w^ork  of  some  historians.) 
Its  whole  life  is  steeped  for  him  in  a  glow  of  incom- 
municable romance  and  affectfoi)..  In  treating  of 
it  Conrad's  critical  sense  is  sometimes  in  abeyance 
before  the  delight  of  his  generous  enthusiasm.  True, 
his  melancholy  philosophy  does  pervade  his  descrip- 
tions of  the  ocean,  but  it  is  more  often  the  melancholy 
of  memory  than  of  disillusion.  His  inborn  love  of  the 
sea  has  grown  stronger  from  year  to  year.  For  this 
is  the  ideal  passion,  whose  only  reward  is  the  know- 
ledge of  toil  and  conquest. 

And,  to  follow  up  another  train  of  the  argument, 
we  may  note  that  Conrad  invests  his  characters  to 
a  very  marked  degree  with  the  atmosphere  of  their 
own  personality.     I  am  aware  that,  in  a  sense,  this 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  83 

is  only  to  say  that  his  characters  are  very  real ;  but 
in  a  sense  it  also  does  imply  something  more.  Tol- 
stoy's characters,  for  instance,  are  real,  but  they  do 
"  not  impress  their  own  personality  upon  their  surround- 
ings^ in  the  way  Conrad's  characters  do.  It  may  be 
'  "thought  that  I  am  forcing  a  point  in  saying  this,  but 
I  hardly  think  I  am.  For  a  long  time  past  I  have  tried 
to  account  to  myself  for  the  special  quality  of  vividness 
in  Conrad's  characters,  and  it  is  this  explanation  alone 
which  reasonably  satisfies  my  judgment.  For  even 
those  characters  of  his  which  are  quite  untouched  by 
any  symbolic  signilicance  appear,  as  it  were,  steeped 
in  the  impalpable  glow  of  their  own  personality.  I 
daresay  I  do  not  make  myself  particularly  plain — for, 
indeed  it  is  a  thing  well-nigh  impossible  to  make  plain 
to  anyone  who  does  not  know  Conrad's  books.  But 
I  believe  that  those  who  do  know  them  will  follow  me. 
And  here,  perhaps,  we  may  find  one  of  the  reasons 
for  Conrad's  comparative  unpopularity.  I  will  be 
explicit.  We  know  that  some  novelists  of  marked 
ability  possess  so  curiously  wrought  a  style  that  reality 
is  actually  impossible  to  them  (Conrad's  own  col- 
laborator, Ford  Hueffer,  is  a  striking  instance  of 
this) — their  style  seems  to  get  not  only  between  the 
reader  and  the  book  but  even  between  the  novelist  and 
the  book  :  and,  conversely,  some  novelists  are  so  real, 
that  their  reality  overwhelms  their  readers.  This  is  at 
once  the  danger  and  the  glory  of  the  atmospheric 
method. 

/^And  applied,  as  Conrad  also  applies  it,  to  the  ex- 
ternal world  of  surroundings  this  intense  discernment 
(of  characteristics  gives  his  work  that  astonishing 
/  richness  of  atmosphere  which  is  almost  equally 
V^ewildering  to  some  of  his  readers.  For  his  forests, 
hfs  rivers,  his  swamps  exhale  the  very  spirit  of  their 


84  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

wild  and  sombre  appearance.  Do  you  remember  that 
scene  in  "  Heart  of  Darkness  "  where  the  two  plotters 
are  overheard  by  Marlow  in  their  vile  agreement 
to  trust  to  the  wilderness  : — 

'*  They  die  so  quick^  too^  that  I  haven't  the  time  to  send 
them  out  of  the  country — it's  incredible  !  "  "  H'm.  Just 
so/'  grunted  the  uncle.  "  Ah  !  my  boy,  trust  to  this — I  say, 
trust  to  this."  I  saw  him  extend  his  short  flipper  of  an  arm 
for  a  gesture  that  took  in  the  forest,  the  creek,  the  mud,  the 
river, — seemed  to  beckon  with  a  dishonouring  flourish  before 
the  sunlit  face  of  the  land  a  treacherous  appeal  to  the  lurking 
death,  to  the  hidden  evil,  to  the  profound  darkness  of  its 
heart.  It  was  so  startling  that  I  leaped  to  my  feet  and 
looked  back  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  as  though  I  had  ex- 
})ected  an  answer  of  some  sort  to  that  black  display  of  con- 
fidence. You  know  the  foolish  notions  that  com.e  to  one 
sometimes.  The  high  stillness  confronted  these  two  figures 
with  its  ominous  patience,  waiting  for  the  passing  away 
of  a  fantastic  invasion.  (Youth,  "  Heart  of  Darkness," 
pp.  103-4.) 

/""That  is  v/hat  I  mean  when  I  say  that  Conrad's 
■■  atmosphere,  itself,  can  arouse  an  uneasy  and  dis- 
concerting emotion  in  the  reader — an  antagonistic 
emotion  arising  from  the  deep  inborn  dread  of  darkness. 
People  have  complained  that  when  Conrad  writes 
of  England  and  of  Northern  countries  in  general 
his  atmosphere  has  the  opulence  of  the  tropics.  There 
is  certainly  foundation  for  this  complaint  if  one  assumes 
that  atmosphere  is  in  the  main  a  matter  of  climate — 
for  instance,  as  I  pointed  out  in  my  first  chapter,  the 
London  of  The  Secret  Agent  is  strangely  exotic — 
but  if  one  assumes  that  it  is  principally  a  matter  of 
temperament,  then  the  justice  of  the  complaint  is 
largely  overborne,  though  the  statement,  as  regards 
his  earlier  works,  is,  I  repeat,  accurate  enough.     Every 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  85 

one  would    agree    that   this    Kentish   landscape    is 
exotic  : — 

With  the  sun  hanging  low  on  its  western  limit;  the  expanse 
of  the  grass-lands  framed  in  the  counter-scarps  of  the  rising 
ground  took  on  a  gorgeous  and  sombre  aspect.  A  sense  of 
penetrating  sadness,  like  that  inspired  by  a  grave  strain  of 
music,  disengaged  itself  from  the  silence  of  the  fields.  The 
men  we  met  walked  past,  slow,  unsmiling,  with  downcast 
eyes,  as  if  the  melancholy  of  an  over-burdened  earth  had 
weighted  their  feet,  bov/ed  their  shoulders,  borne  down  their 
glances.    {Typhoon,  "Amy  Foster,"  p.  121.) 

Yes,  every  one  would  agree  that  it  is  an  exotic 
description,  but  to  say  that  it  is  too  far  fetched  is 
rather  like  saying  that  the  descriptions  in  Keats' 
**  The  Eve  of  Saint  Mark  "  are  too  far  fetched.  For 
both  are  animated  by  the  same  sort  of  imagination. 

But,  in  his  later  works,  even  that  accusation  does 
not  hold  altogether  good.  Let  me  give  an  example 
from  "  The  Duel,"  in  which  the  snowy  Russia  of  the 
retreat  from  Moscow  is  presented  more  from  a 
European  standpoint,  and  presented,  too,  with 
powerful  realism  : — 

,The  only  stragglers  were  those  who  fell  out  to  give  up  to 
the  frost  their  exhausted  souls.  They  plodded  on,  and  their 
passage  did  not  disturb  the  mortal  silence  of  the  plains, 
shining  with  the  livid  light  of  snows  under  a  sky  the  colour 
of  ashes.  Whirlwinds  ran  along  the  fields,  broke  against 
the  dark  column,  enveloped  it  in  a  turmoil  of  flying  icicles, 
and  subsided,  disclosing  it  creeping  on  its  tragic  way  v/ithout 
the  swing  and  rhythm  of  the  military  pace.  It  struggled 
onwards,  the  men  exchanging  neither  words  nor  looks ; 
whole  ranks  marched  touching  elbow,  day  after  day  and 
never  raising  their  eyes  from  the  ground,  as  if  lost  in  des- 
pairing reflections.  In  the  dumb,  black  forests  of  pines  the 
cracking  of  overloaded  branches  was  the  only  sound  they 
heard.     Often  from  daybreak  to  dusk  no  one  spoke  in  the 


86  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

whole  column.  It  was  like  a  macabre  march  of  struggling 
corpses  towards  a  distant  grave.  (A  Set  of  Six,  "  The  Duel," 
pp.  226-7.) 

But  I  will  admit  that  one  misses  in  Conrad  the  soft, 
dreamy  atmosphere  which  confers  such  a  charm  on 
the  Russians.  In  a  writer  hke  Turgenev  the  poetry 
of  spring  breathes  upon  the  rhapsodies  of  first  love 
so  consummately  as  to  create  a  beautiful  illusion  of 
the  beneficence  of  nature.  It  is  this  atmosphere  of 
still  and  passionate  delight,  this  tender  music  of  pearly 
summer  evenings  on  the  steppes,  that  the  Russians 
have  made  all  their  own. 

Where  Conrad's  atmosphere  does  resemble  that  of 
the  Russians  is  in  its  pervasive  quality.  It  is  not  a 
series  of  crude,  brilliant  slashes,  as  it  is,  for  instance, 
in  some  (though  not  all)  of  the  work  of  Masefield, 
but  it  is  an  emotion  sinking  deep  into  the  spirit  of 
the  book.  It  is,  certainly,  more  marked  in  Conrad's 
earlier  as  compared  to  his  later  work,  but  it  is  always 
there  as  part  of  the  whole  substance  of  the  story. 
I  can  explain  more  clearly  what  I  mean  by  giving  an 
illustration  from  Anatole  France.  In  Thai's,  which 
is  early,  the  atmosphere  is  rich,  voluptuous,  and 
glowing,  in  the  Bergeret  series,  which  is  late,  the 
atmosphere  is  subdued  and  subtle — but  in  each  case 
it  enters  into  the  very  core  of  the  work.  That  is 
somewhat  the  difference  betw^een,  say,  the  earliest 
novel  of  Conrad,  Almayer's  Folly,  and  the  latest. 
Chance.  In  Almayer's  Folly  he  may  describe  a  river 
in  this  way  : — 

Over  the  low  river-mist  hiding  the  boat  with  its  freight 
of  young  passionate  life  and  all-forgetful  happiness,  the 
stars  paled,  and  a  silvery-grey  tint  crept  over  the  sky  from 
the  eastward.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind,  not  a  rustle 
of  stirring  leaf,  not  a  splash  of  leaping  fish  to  disturb  the 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  87 

serene  repose  of  all  living  things  on  the  banks  of  the  great 
river.  Earth,  river,  and  sky  were  wrapped  up  in  a  deep 
sleep,  from  which  it  seemed  there  would  be  no  waking.  All 
the  seething  life  and  movement  of  tropical  nature  seemed 
concentrated  in  the  ardent  eyes,  in  the  tumultuously  beating 
hearts  of  the  two  beings  drifting  in  the  canoe,  under  the 
white  canopy  of  mist,  over  the  smooth  surface  of  the  river. 

Suddenly  a  great  sheaf  of  yellow  rays  shot  upwards  from 
behind  the  black  curtain  of  trees  lining  the  banks  of  the 
Pantai.  The  stars  went  out ;  the  little  black  clouds  at  the 
zenith  glowed  for  a  moment  with  crimson  tints,  and  the 
thick  mist,  stirred  by  the  gentle  breeze,  the  sigh  of  waking 
nature,  whirled  round  and  broke  into  fantastically  torn 
pieces,  disclosing  the  wrinkled  surface  of  the  river  sparkling 
in  the  broad  light  of  day.  Great  flocks  of  white  birds 
wheeled  screaming  above  the  swaying  tree-tops.  The  sun 
had  risen  on  the  east  coast.     (Almayer's  Folly,  pp.  94-5.) 

and  in  Chance  he  may  describe  a  river  in  this  way  : — 

As  often  happens  after  a  grey  daybreak  the  sun  had  risen 
in  a  warm  and  glorious  splendour  above  the  smooth  immense 
gleam  of  the  enlarged  estuary.  Whisps  of  mist  floated  like 
trails  of  luminous  dust,  and  in  the  dazzling  reflections  of 
water  and  vapour,  the  shores  had  the  murky  semi-transparent 
darkness  of  shadows  cast  mysteriously  from  below.  Powell, 
who  had  sailed  out  of  London  all  his  young  seaman's  life 
told  me  that  it  was  then,  in  a  moment  of  entranced  vision 
an  hour  or  so  after  sunrise,  that  the  river  was  revealed  to 
him  for  all  time,  Hke  a  fair  face  often  seen  before,  which  is 
suddenly  perceived  to  be  the  expression  of  an  inner  and 
unsuspected  beauty,  of  that  something  unique  and  only  its 
own  which  arouses  a  passion  of  wonder  and  fidelity  and  an 
unappeasable  memory  of  its  charm.  The  hull  of  the  Ferndde 
swung  head  to  the  eastward,  caught  the  light,  her  tall  spars 
and  rigging  steeped  in  a  path  of  red-gold,  from  the  water-line 
full  of  glitter  to  the  trucks  slight  and  gleaming  against  the 
delicate  expanse  of  blue.    {Chance,  p.  251.) 

but   in  both  these  descriptions  there  is  the  typical 
atmosphere  of  the  respective  books,  the  atmosphere 


88  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

illusive  and  universal  which  gives  its  special  tone  to 
the  various  stages  of  his  work.  For  the  difference 
between  them  is  not  simply  that  between  north  and 
south,  between  the  Pantai  and  the  Thames,  it  is  the 
difference  between  Conrad's  early  and  Conrad's  late 
manner.  I  can  only  present  it  in  concrete  examples, 
of  course — though  with  an  atmosphere  such  as  Conrad's 
a  concrete  example  is  but  the  visualisation  of  the  whole 
spirit.  For  in  Conrad's  books  atmosphere  is  always 
treated  from  the  same  standpoint,  though  it  is 
developed  in  many  different  moods.. 

But  there  is  one  thing  about  Conrad  which,  I  fancy, 
is  universally  admitted,  and  that  is  his  power  of 
building  up  the  atmosphere  of  romance — a  romance 
often  tinged,  as  I  say,  with  the  hue  of  vain  regret, 
of  useless  desire,  and  of  defeated  hope.  It  falls  upon 
his  characters  and  his  scenes,  it  dyes  his  stories  with 
the  sadness  of  vanished  youth.  For  it  is  romance 
alone  that  makes  memory  poignant.  An  air  of  ex- 
pectancy hovers  over  his  stories,  but  it  is  an  expect- 
ancy that  fades  away  into  old  age.  For  it  is  "hope 
that  is  sweet  but  it  is  decay  that  is  certain.  As 
Conrad  exclaims  : — 

Oh  the  glamour  of  youth  !  Oh  the  fire  of  it,  more  dazzling 
than  the  flames  of  the  burning  ship,  throwing  a  magic  light 
on  the  wide  earth,  leaping  audaciously  to  the  sky,  presently 
to  be  quenched  by  time,  more  cruel,  more  pitiless,  more 
bitter  than  the  sea— and  like  the  flames  of  the  burning  ship 
surrounded  by  an  impenetrable  night.  (Yoiithj  "  Youth/' 
P-  33-) 

But  he  can  also  create  the  more  ordinary  glamour 
of  romantic  adventure.  There  is  plenty  of  it  in 
"  Youth,"  in  "  The  Duel  "  in  "  A  Smile  of  Fortune," 
but  nowhere  is  it  more  sustained  than  in  the  novel 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  89 

of  Romance.  In  this  book  Conrad  and  Hueffer  have 
achieved  the  very  spirit  of  their  title.  It  ghtters 
with  the  romance  of  danger,  of  love,  of  youth,  of 
intrigue.  And  it  creates  with  rare  depth  of  imagina- 
tion the  very  soul  of  Spanish  Cuba  of  a  hundred  years 
ago.  Some  of  the  descriptions  in  Romance  are  ex- 
tremely fine.  Here  is  one  which  has  been  truly  called 
Dantesque  : — 

*'  I  feel  in  me  a  greatness,  an  inspiration:  .  .  .'* 
These  were  his  last  words.  The  heavy  dark  lashes  de- 
scended slowly  upon  the  faint  gleam  of  the  eyeballs,  like  a 
lowered  curtain.  The  deep  folds  of  the  ravine  gathered  the 
falling  dusk  into  great  pools  of  absolute  blackness  at  the  foot 
of  the  crags. 

Rising  high  above  our  littleness  that  watched,  fascinated, 
the  struggle  of  lights  and  shadows  over  the  soul  entangled 
in  the  wreck  of  a  man's  body,  the  rocks  had  a  monumental 
indifference.  And  between  their  great  stony  faces,  turning 
pale  in  the  gloom,  with  the  amazed  peon  as  if  standing  guard, 
machete  in  hand,  Manuel's  greatness  and  his  inspiration 
passed  away  without  as  much  as  an  exhaled  sigh.  (Romance, 
PP*  365-6.) 

Indeed,  Romance  is  a  book  too  often  overlooked  by 
students  of  Conrad. 

I  have  said  little  or  nothing  about  the  other  side 
/of  atmosphere — the  unconscious  and  ceaseless  mani- 
festation of  personality.  And  I  have  said  little 
because,  of  course,  the  object  of  this  whole  book  is 
to  make  that  evident.  Conrad  has  his  flavour  just 
as  any  other  writer  of  any  prominence  has  his.  That 
it  is  visible  in  his  conscious  effects  is  naturally  true,  for 
such  are  the  index  to  the  inner  self.  (And  here  are  the 
chiefpomts  oiie.„niay  look  for  in  Conrad's  philosophy 
-H^omance  tinged  with  the  sense  of  fatalism  and 
sadness,  cynicism  touched  by  a  deep  regard  for  the  '^ 


90  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


qualities  of  simplicity  and  compassion,  i   He  is  im- 

pafient    of the    futility  of   things,   ana   fatalism  is 

embedded  in  his  theory  of  a  pitiless  scheme.  And 
yet  to  all  this  is  queerly  joined  a  real  zest  for  existence, 
and  a  sympathetic  warmth  for  artless  and  beautiful 
lives.  I  feel  inclined  to  say  that  to  his  general  dis- 
illusionment about  life  there  is  added  an  almost  naive 
belief  in  goodness.  It  is  in  the  rough  seamen  of  the 
Narcissus  or  in  the  frail  figure  of  a  Mrs  Gould 
that  Conrad  finds  an  antidote  for  his  disgust  at 
human  folly. 

And,  arising  out  of  this  duality,  we  can  notice  in 
Conrad,  overlaid,  as  it  were,  upon  his  pessimism,  the 
strictest  regard  for  integrity  and  an  austere  sense  of- 
honour.  I  do  not  mean  that  these  things  are  neces- 
sarily antagonistic  to  a  pessimistic  conception  of  life, 
but  I  do  mean  that,  in  the  way  Conrad  presents  them, 
they  might  appear  old  fashioned  to  stupid  persons. 
For,  as  I  have  stated  previously,  people  in  England 
expect  original  cleverness  in  their  literary  heroes — 
and  expect  it,  I  may  add,  even  concerning  the  most 
straightforward  emotions  of  life.  They  want  mounte- 
banks to  tell  them  that  their  integrity  is  a  subject 
for  derision,  or  that  their  honour  is,  strictly  speaking, 
dishonourable  ;  or  else,  they  want  some  one  who  will 
for  ever  be  drawing  the  shades  finer  and  finer.  The 
simplicit}^  of  a  man  like  Conrad,  a  simplicity  hiding 
an  immense  subtlety  of  perception,  is  not  easily 
understood.  But,  in  contrast  to  Conrad's  wide  tone 
of  sceptical  aloofness,  it  is  a  note  the  unexpectedness 
of  which  is  sure  to  strike  home  to  every  reader. 

But  I  will  draw  these  rather  desultory  remarks  on 
Conrad's  atmosphere  to  a  close.  For  I  set  out  to  do 
a  thing  which  I  find  is  beyond  me.  The  secret  of 
Conrad's  atmosphere  eludes  me  as  a  critic,  though 


CONRAD'S  ATMOSPHERE  91 

emotionally  it  is  as  clear  as  the  day.     That  is  one  of 

the   reasons   why  I  have   given   so    many   extracts 

(though,  of  course,  it  is  only  the  physical  atmosphere 

that  extracts  adequately  present) — because  in  them  is 

demonstrated  the  very  quality  that  escapes  analysis. 

.  Moreover  one  cannot  break  up  atmosphere  into  its 

component   parts   without   destroying   its   magic.     I 

can  only  point  out  again,  what  has  been  pointed  out 

by  so  many  other  people,  that  atmosphere  does  exist 

/potently  in  the  very  fibre  of  Conrad's  books.     It  is 

I  this  which,  in  its  weakness  alike  as  in  its  strength, 

I  gives  to  Conrad's  work  its  chief  claim  to  uniqueness. 


CHAPTER  V 

CONRAD   AS   PSYCHOLOGIST 

& 

In  the  two  following  chapters  I  mean  to  discuss  some 
of  the  more  prominent  figures  in  Conrad's  books — in 
the  first  of  them  the  men  ;  in  the  second  of  them,  the 
women.  For,  of  course,  that  is  the  only  satisfactory 
method  of  analysing  the  psychological  powers  of  a 
novelist.  A  truism  indeed  !  But  at  the  outset  I 
propose  to  make  a  few  remarks  on  Conrad's  general 
conception  of  character  and  of  his  manner  of  ap- 
proaching the  subject.  And  first  of  all  I  would  point 
out  that  nowhere  more  decisively  than  in  his  drawing 
of  character  does  Conrad  reveal  his  tremendous  grip 
on  reality.  Not  only  are  liis  people  drawn  wk^^^ 
imagination,  but  with  a  ceaseless  detail  which  is  ever 
awake  to  uphold,  like  Atlas,  the  structure  of  his  vision- 
ary world.  It  is  the  conjunction  of  these  two  diverse 
and  necessary  forces  that  gives  the  high  actuality 
to  his  creations.  Such  realism  knows  nothing  of  the 
eccentric  or  typical  view  of  character  so  common 
amongst  our  English  writers.  The  fresh  gusts  of 
vivacity  that  are  ceaselessly  flowing  from  some 
novelists  into  their  puppets  may  serve  to  entertain 
the  reader  enormously  but  are  quite  useless  for  the 
purpose  of  realism.  The  figures  of  Conrad  live  because 
the  fires  of  their  existence^  burn  inwardly.  Jliey  are 
projected  once  and  for  all  from  the^.jmind  _oi  their 
author  and  thcVeafter  they  have  no  need  to  call  upon 
him  for  help.     They  don't  require  bolstering  up,  so 

92 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST  93 

*  to  speak,  by  the  sallies  of  their  originator.  That  is 
the  realistic  gift — a  thing  as  perfect  in  its  illusion  as 

JTs  the  perspective  of  a  masterly  painting.  And  no 
brilliance,  no  philosophic  depth,  no  curious  originality 
can  take  its  place. 

And  the  next  point  I  would  insist  on  is  that,  although 
Conrad's  psychology  is  always  sane  and  unjaundiced, 

.  yet,  in  his  male  characters  especialJjA,  he  d^^^^  draw  a 
type  of  mind  to  whom  the  domination  of  one  idea  has  '^ 
a  terrible  attraction.  'T  need  riot  cite  examples  at 
the  moment,  but  I  mention  it  here  because  it  is  a  thing 
which  shows  clearly  enough  Conrad's  theory  of  people 
as  a  whole.  And  his  theory  is,  I  think,  that  beneath  *' 
the  usual  level  of  sanity  and  good  will  there  is  an 
immense  under-world  of  darkness  and  unrest.  Our 
healthiness  is  snatched  f eaTfutty"out~  of  the  madness 
of  nature.  ■His  philosophy  of  character  is  often 
optimistic,  his  philosophy  of  life  invariably  pessimistic./  ^ 

And  Conrad's  view  of  character  has,  as  I  have 
pointed  out  elsewhere,  an  occasional  touch  of  sym- 
bolism _about  it  which  is  extraordinarily  thrilling, 
fiuf^e  must  remember  that  it  is  thrilling  simply 
because  the  symbolism  does  not  swallow  up  the 
reality.  Captain  Mac  Whirr  in  "  Typhoon  "  is  a  case 
in  point.  In  my  chapter  on  Conrad's  atmosphere 
I  speak  of  the  excitement  we  experience  when  this 
stupid  man  faces  with  invulnerable  endurance  the 
fury   of  the   storm.     But   the   reason  why  he   does 

I  interest  one  so  intensely  is  just  because  he  is  a  real 

/  person  and  not  merely  symbolic  of  man's  fight  with 
nature.  I  am  a  little  afraid  lest  what  I  have  said  in 
the  other  chapter  may  be  misunderstood.  You  see, 
there  is  this  recondite  duality  in  romantic  minds,  this 
capacity  for  creating  one  illusion  within  another. 
Captain  MacWhirr  is  essentially  real,  but  his  reality 


94  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


seems  enhanced  by  his  contact  with  the  typhoon. 
That  is  Conrad's  system  of  developing  his  characters. 
He  Hkes  to  show  us  them  batthng  with  some  definite 

t  catastrophe  or  idea.  His  people  are  faced  with 
monstrous  propositions.  There , .  is  Lord  J im  [Lord 
Jim)  with  his  problem,  of  hov/_to  redeem-his,  honour, 
there  is  Charles  Gould  {Nostromo)  ensIaved~Ionis"silver 
mine,  there  is  Almayer  (Almayer's  Folly)  with  his  hope 
of  riches,  there  is  Mr  Verloc  {The  Secret  Agent)  haunted 

"^  by  his  own  endless  scheming,  there  is  Lieutenant 
Feraud  ("The  Duel")  obsessed  by  his  duel,  there  is 
Razumov  ( Under  Western  Eyes)  fighting  his  conscience, 
there  is  old  de  Barral  {Chance)  with  his  monomania 
of  hatred  and  ill-usage.  I  need  not  prolong  such  a 
list  :  it  is  what  I  spoke  of  in  my  former  paragraph — 
the  power  of  the  idee  fixe  over  Conrad's  male  portraits. 
Not  always,  of  course,  but  quite  frequently,  this  is 
how  Conrad  works,  and  it  has  led  to  some  talk  of  his 

,  not  being  so  much  a  profound  psychologist  as  a 
profound  describer  of  moods.  I  do  not  think  there 
is  much  in  that,  for  it  only  represents  the  incapacity 
of  most  normal  people  to  realise  the  might  of  even 
slightly  abnormal  obsessions  and  it  shows  also  that 
they  have  not  grasped  how  Conrad  arrives  at  his  con- 
clusions.    For  he  is  not  describing  eccentric  types,  he 

,  \  is  describing  the  victimisation  of  ordinary  people  by ' 
the  madness  of  the  world.  Almost  more  than  any 
other  writer  save  Dostoievsky,  has  Conrad  probed  to 
its  depths  the  duality  of  the  mind.  In  my  opinion 
he  is  .truly  one  of  the  great  imagiiiatrve  creators] 
For  me  his  portraits  have  an  absorbing  actuality. 
He  builds  up  his  figures  by  a  hundred  harmonious 
touches.  Even  assume  that  he  is  going  to  present 
us  to  a  man  driven  by  one  mastering  impulse — say 
Lord  Jim.     That  does  not  prevent  him  very  soon 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST  95 


making  us  comprehend  Lord  Jim  quite  apart  from 
that  impulse.  For  not  only  is  Jim's  treatment  of  his 
own  obsession  a  Icey  to  his  whole  character,  but,  with 
the  .sure  instinct  of  an  artist,  'Conrad  finishes  him  off 
completely — him  and  all  his  other  people,  indeed — 
their. .  gestures^  their  scraps  of  dialogue/'"He  reads 
them  subjectively  and  objectively,  he  views  them  from 
all  sorts  of  standpoints. /'JHis  endeavour  is  to  be 
universally  consistent  to  reality.  ^  I  do  not  say  he  is 
invariably  successful — I  do  not  think  he  is.  I  would 
not  call  such  figures  as  Father  Corbelan  (Nostromo), 
or  Caspar  Ruiz  (''  Caspar  Ruiz  ")  or  even  Marlow  him- 
self ("  Heart  of  Darkness,"  etc.)  altogether  successful 
— just  to  mention  a  few.  But  that  is  only  to  be  ex- 
pected, it  happens  to  every  creator.  Look  at  the 
Bulgarian  in  Turgenev's  On  the  Eve — what  a  piece 
of  wood  !  But  the  answer  to  that  is  surely  this — 
Look  at  Helena  in  the  same  book.  And  as  to  Conrad, 
I  have  only  to  say,  look  at  so  and  so,  and  so  and  so — 
fifty  figures  ! 

That  is  the  worst  of  it.     There  are  so  many  char- 
a^ers  of  the  finest  distinction  in  Conrad's  works  that 
I  have  no  space  to  deal  at  all  adequately  with  more 
than  a  few  of  them.     Or  rather,  it  is  true  of  his  men — 
his  women  are  comparatively  few  in  number.     And 
---^et,  in  a  sense,  Conrad's  male  portraits  require  subtler 
handling  than  his  female  portraits.     For  his  women 
are  more  direct  than  his  men  and  the  beautiful  deli- 
cacy of  their  construction  requires,  for  right  under- 
standing, only  the  talent  of  sympathy  and  observation, 
whereas  some,  at  any  rate,  of  his  men  are  definitely 
~  obscure  not,  be  it  understood,   in  their  psychology 
\  but  in  the  reasons  for  their  psychology.     Male  por- 
traits,   elaborate,    singular,    very    distinctive,    crowd 
these  pages.     In  Nostromo,  alone,  there  must  be  a 


96  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


dozen  figures  of  unique  consequence.  The  minds  of 
his  chief  men  are  unrolled  before  us  with  a  wealth, 
and  fullness  recalHng  the  huge  monologues  of  Brown- 
ing. For  instance  Lord  Jim  is  concerned,  principally 
with  one  figure — Jim;  and  Under  Western  Eyes 
principally  with  one  figure — Razumov. 

But  here  let  me  point  out  a  fundamental  principle 
of  Conrad's  art.  And  it  is  a  principle  at  once  -so 
alien  to  our  English  conception  of  the  novel  and  so 
necessary  in  Conrad's  conception  of  it  that  I  must 
put  it  strongly.  pBowever  important  a  character 
of  Conrad's  may  be,  that  character  is,  nevertheless, 
subordinate  to  the  unity  of  the  bookj  Put  thus  it 
sounds  neither  a  startling  nor  an  unusual  assertion 
but  if  the  test  be  applied  to  the  great  characters  of 
the  great  English  novelists  it  would  not  stand.  To 
take,  what  is  perhaps  an  extreme  example  :  Who 
ever  thinks  of  Dickens'  principal  figures  in  relation 
to  the  plot  ?  G.  K.  Chesterton  knocks  the  nail  on 
that  head  acutely  in  his  Charles  Dickens,  when  he 
says  : — 

Dickens'  characters  are  perfect  as  long  as  he  can  keep 
them  out  of  his  stories  (p.  148). 

The  truth  is,  that  the  unity  of  the  novel  is  an  idea 
that  has  been,  with  the  exception  of  Henry  James 
and  George  Moore  (writers  much  under  Continental 
influence),  upheld  by  few  English-speaking  novelists 
before  Conrad. 

And  I  may  add,  further,  that  what  most  interests 
Conrad  about  people  is,  as  a  friend  of  mine  calls  it, 
"  The  changing  complex  of  human  relations,"  rather 
than  the  people  as  individuals^  Jt  is  that,  mainly, 
which  difierentiates  his  novels  from  the  Enghsh 
novels    of    character.      Just    as  he  has   the   artistic 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST  97 

balance  of  his  whole  work  before  him  in  every  sen- 
tence, so  does  he  have  the  subtle  grouping  of  all 
his  characters  before  him  in  every  one  of  their 
actions.  '  The  conflict  of  antagonistic  or  sympathetic 
natures  is  what  really  "  intrigues  "  Conrad's  imagina- 
tion. That  is  why  he  is  so  fond  of  viewing  his 
figures  through  the  eyes  of  several  different  people, 
as  in  Chance,  for  instance  (which  almost  follows  the 
methods  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book),  and  of  taking 
quite  minor  characters,  such  as  the  French  officer  in 
Lord  Jim  or  the  Brussels  girl  in  "  Heart  of  Darkness,*' 
'and  treating  them  as  pivots  on  which  he  can  turn 
his  group  of  principal  actors,  thereby  gaining  new 
lights  on  them. 

But,  returning  for  an  instant  to  what  I  was  saying 
about  Conrad's  tendency  to  make  his  men  subject  to 
the  fascination  of  an  idee  fixe,  and  to  his  view  of  nature 
as  a  mass  of  wild  forces,  one  should  note  absolutely 
that  Conrad,  himself,  is  not  under  the  idee  fixes  from, 
which  his  characters  suffer  (as,  for  instance,  is  Tol-jii 
stoy),  nor  are  these  characters  of  his  at  all  insane 
(as,  for  instance,  are  the  characters  of  Dostoievsky). 
To  realise  this  truly  is  essential,  because  complete  .'| 
sanity  is  of  the  very  nature  of  Conrad's  genius.  To 7 
say  that  his  mental  balance  is  unclouded  is,  after  all, 
hardly  more  than  to  afhrm  that  his  psychology  is 
rooted  in  reality.  That  seems  obvious  for,  if  it  were 
not  so,  the  obsessions  of  his  people  would  not  move 
us,  they  would  only  bewilder  us.  (I  admit  that 
Dostoievsky's  characters  move  us — but  then  they 
are  not  all  insane  and  such  as  are,  are  generally 
advancing  out  of  or  into  insanity  ;  they  are  still 
human).  For  though  the  dehumanised  mind  may  be 
pathetic,  it  is  actually  without  significance — it  revolves 
in  an  unreal  world.     My  meaning  cannot  be  better 


98  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


expressed  than  in  the  words  of  A.  C.  Bradley  in  his 
Shakespearean  Tragedy  : — 

Shakespeare,  occasionally  and  for  reasons  which  need 
not  be  discussed  here,  represents  abnormal  conditions  of 
mind  ;  insanity,  for  example,  somnambulism,  hallucinations. 
And  deeds  issuing  from  these  are  certainly  not  what  are 
called  deeds  in  the  fullest  sense,  deeds  expressive  of  char- 
acter. ...  If  Lear  were  really  mad  when  he  divided  his 
kingdom,  if  Hamlet  were  really  mad  at  any  time  in  the  story, 
they  would  cease  to  be  tragic  characters  (pp.  13-4). 

I  It  is  just  the  assurance  we  feel  that  Conrad's  char- 
acters, in  spite  of  all  their  idee  fixes,  in  spite  of  the  mad 
world  around  them,  are  real,  suffering  people,  that 
gives  the  dignity  of  tragedy  to  his  creations.^ 

I  daresay  I  shall  be  accused  here  of  manipulating 
the  facts  of  the  case  to  suit  my  contention — of  proving 
black  to  be  white,  in  simpler  terms — but  I  am  not 
conscious  of  so  doing.  If  people  say  that  I  am  raising 
a  bother  about  nothing  at  all,  that  I  am,  in  fact, 
creating  a  philosophy  for  Conrad  that  he  never  created 
for  himself,  it  may  be  that  they  are  right — it  is  their 
criticism  against  mine — but  if  they  say  that  once 
having  admitted  that  Conrad's  characters  are  subject 
to  idee  fixes  springing  from  contact  v/ith  an  essentially 

p  mad  v/orld,  I  must  then  admit,  logically,  that  such 
characters  are  actually  mad  themselves,  I  altogether 
disagree.     My  whole  contention  is  that,  to  Conrad, 

;  humanity  is  the  one  sane  thing  in  the  universe — I 
mean  sane  in  the  sense  of  having  an  ordered  develop- 
ment and  not  a  mere  blind  repetition.  I  own  that 
in  human  beings  the  line  where  responsibility  merges 
into  sheer  insanity  may  not  be  strictly  discernible, 
but,  all  the  same,  it  is  quite  plain  when  it  has  not  been 
overstepped.  In  other  words,  we  know  perfectly 
v^-ell   when   eccentricity   is   not  madness.     And   it   is 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST  99 


with  this  knowledge  one  realises  that  none  of 
Conrad's  subjective  characters  even  approach  insanity. 
Furthermore  (though  this  is  not  really  germane  to 
Conrad  as  it  is  to  Shakespeare)  we  should  remember 
that  literary  madness  is  very  seldom  real  madness. 
But,  indeed,  in  connection  with  the  whole  subject, 
one  might  well  venture  the  remark  that  so  trans- 
parently sane  a  man  as  Conrad  could  not,  if  he 
tried,  treat  insanity  subjectively.  Poor  old  Captain 
Hagberd  in  "  To-morrow "  (a  man  whose  idee  fixe 
has  degenerated  into  true  insanity)  is  viewed  entirely 
objectively.  He  claims  our  pity  because  we  see  him 
through  the  eyes  of  the  other  actors,  and  consequently 
in  focus  with  our  world  of  ideas. 

And  just  as  one  feels  with  entire  certainty  the 
sanity  of  men  like  Shakespeare  and  Conrad,  so 
one  feels  doubtful  about  the  sanity  of  men  like 
Blake  and  Dostoievsky.  Here,  of  course,  I  am  on 
dangerous  ground  because,  though  the  insanity  of 
genius  is  so  obviously  a  different  thing  from  ordinary 
insanity,  yet  adverse  critics  will  never  admit  that  one 
is  aware  of  that :  but  I  bring  it  forward  here  to  prove 
still  more  decisively  the  sanity  of  Conrad  and  his 
characters.  You  have  only  to  study  Blake's  pictures 
or  Dostoievsky's  heroes  to  be  convinced  that  there  is 
something  abnormal  and  disordered  in  their  creators' 
minds.  Blake  is  an  extraordinarily  dynamic  artist 
and  Dostoievsky  the  greatest  novelist  the  world  is  ever 
likely  to  see,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  neither  of  them 
is  sane  in  the  sense  that  Conrad  is  sane — as  sure  as 
that  their  *'  insanity  "  is  so  subtle  and  indefinable  that 
I  will  never  be  able  to  lay  my  finger  on  it. 

But  my  opinion  remains  that,   as  I   said  before^ 
[Conrad  views  nature  as  a  mad,  incoherent  jumble?; 
This  philosophy  of  his  is  constantly  peeping  out  both 


100  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


in  his   melancholy   atmosphere   and   in   the   sombre 

delusions  of  his  figures.     Sanity  to  him  lies  deeper  than 

the  beautiful  face  of  the  external  world.     He  is  no 

George  Meredith  to  be  beguiled  into  worship  of  what 

is  inevitable.     His  idea  of  nature  is  founded  upon  a 

j  conception  of  destiny  more  rebellious  than  that  of 

r  Meredith,   and  not   only  more  rebelHous  but   more 

I  tragic.     And  yet  I  would  not  say  that  Meredith's 

and  Conrad's  views  of  nature  are  so  far  apart  as  might 

appear.     No  doubt  Conrad  too,  would  echo  Meredith's 

line  : — 

Into  the  breast  that  gives  the  rose 
Shall  I  with  shuddering  fall "? 

{Ode  to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn.) 

but  then  he  would  echo  it  because  stoicism  in  regard 
to  life  must  always  be  a  quality  of  clear-headed 
thinkers.  The  rapttkre  for  Nature's  loveliness  is  equally 
apparent  in  Meredith  and  in  Conrad,  but  to  one  she  is 
,  the^untain  of  man's  sanity,  whereas  to^he  other  sl;ie' 
J  is  the  quagmire  of  man's  unrest.  I  expect  that  I 
am  putting  the  case  crudely  in  my  desire  to  make 
my  point  and  my  comparison,  but  I  believe  I  have 
stated  the  general  truth  of  the  matter. 

But  Conrad's  own  grasp  of  character  shows  a  sense 
*  of  proportion  of  the  most  valuable  description.;^  It 
shows  it  in  his  avoidance  of  those  extravagances  that 
might  tend  to  diminish  the  individual  reality  of  his 
creations  just  as  well  as  in  the  sensitive  poise  and 
balance  of  his  atmosphere. "')  I  speak  of  his  finest  work. 
I  admit  that  he  can  sometimes  be  extravagant  but, 
even  so,  it  is  an  extravagance  that  is  never  really 
bizarre.  His  extravagances  are  those  of  over-im- 
agination and  not  those  of  false  imagination.  We 
seldom,  if  ever,  feel  that  he  has  made  a  mistake  in 


CONRAD  AS  PSyC*£eL^:>GI8T         101 

psychology,  though  we  feel,  often  enough,  that  he 
has  gone  beyond  due  limits  in  its  presentation.  And 
this  frequently  arises  from  the  too  rich  colours  of  his 
atmosphe^ie:  fin  his  later  books,  where  his  atmosphere 
is  toned  down  very  considerably,  the  false  notes  in 
Conrad — I  mean  the  positive  false  notes — occur  hardly 
at  alU 
^.-^^iia  this  suggests  a  fruitful  topic — ^the  influence 
^  ofjimosphere  on  Conrad's  figures.  I  have  touched 
on  this  subjectTfi^'the  particular  chapter  that  treats 
of  Conrad's  atmosphere  and  so  I  may,  perhaps,  be 
pardoned  if  I  have  to  repeat  myself.  The  truth  is, 
Conrad's  [psychology  is  saturated  in  atmosphere  and 
cannot  very  well  be  appreciated  fully  apart  from  it  A 
If  all  hangs  on  what  I  was  saying  before — that  Conrad's 
characters  are  as  much  a  portion  of  an  artistic  whole 
(the  story  in  which  they  appear)  as  they  are  individu- 
alities in  themselves.  I  really  do  not  see  how  that  can 
be  denied,  f^is  people  take  on,  with  artful  gradations, 
thejLtmospEere  of  their  surroundings  A  Indeed  Confad's 
chief,. aim_is^^~6  pave  the  way.  lor  their  reality 
by^  the  creation  of  a  tremendous  and  pervasive 
atinosphere.  I  mean  by  atmosphere  (as  much  as 
anything  else)  that  emotion  which  j;ives  an  under- 
current to  the  unity  of  a  work  of  artj  In  this  sense 
of  the  word  his  figures  are  obviously  atmospheric. 

And,  furthermore,  Conrad  has  an  endless  curiosity 
in  regard  to  character?;,  He  is  always  experimenting. 
"Tor  jnstance,  he  takes  a  shipful  of  unsophisticated 
sailors  in  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  and  he  con- 
fronts them  with  a  knotty  problem — the  problem  of 
the  dying  James  Wait.  What  he  wants  to  do  is  to 
discover  the  limits  of  their  simplicity.  The  result  is 
remarkable.  The  whole  discipline  of  the  ship  is  dis- 
integrated because  these  seamen  cannot  understand 


M  ■  JOS-EPR  CONRAD 

the  officers'  attitude  towards  the  nigger  and  it  even 
results  in  an  attempted  mutiny  against  men  for  whom 
/they  have  a  genuine  regard. 

Again,  in  Lord  Jim,  Conrad  wants  to  find  out  what 
■  it  is  in  man  that  makes  him  so  often  disregard  the 
first  law  of  his  being — the  law  of  self-preservation  ; 
in  other  words,  what  bravery  is.  So,  with  his  intense 
and  apparently  paradoxical  curiosity,  he  burrows 
down  into  the  secret  places  of  the  heart  to  analyse  its 
converse — cowardice.  Firstly,  there  is  Jim,  a  man 
with  a  romantic  vision  of  himself  wliO^mu-st- retain  it 
or  go  under  ;  secondly,  there  is  Brierly,  a  man  with  a 
professional  pride,  who  must  be  at  the  top  or  nowhere  ; 
thirdly,  there  is  the  French  Lieutenant,  a  man  with  a 
spiritual  sense  of  honour,  who  must,  keep  it  untarnished 
or  cease  to  exist.  Through  comprehending  what 
actual  or  possible  cowardice  means  to  these  three  men 
Conrad  grasps  the  meaning  of  that  elusive  thing  which 
is  bravery  and  self-sacrifice. 
%^^  Again,  the  question  of  obedience  and  discipline  is 
one  that  has  exercised  Conrad  much.  He  voices  it  in 
"  Heart- of  Darkness  "  w^hen  Marlow  asks  himself  why 
it  was  that  the  miserable,  half -starved  natives  on  the 
boat  going  up  the  Congo  didn't  simply  eat  the  "  pil- 
grims "  and  have  done  with  it  instead  of  obeying  all 
their  weary  and  senseless  behests  ;  and  he  voices  it, 
too  (though  this  time  merely  by  implication)  in  "  The 
Secret  Sharer  "  where  the  question  arises,  why  did  the 
sailors  and  officers  obey  the  captain  whom  they  were 
certain  was  mad  and  obey  him  not  only  in  ordinary 
things  but  when  it  was  obvious  that  his  orders  were 
likely  to  result  in  shipwreck  ?  And  in  both  cases  he  is 
careful  to  cut  from  under  our  feet  all  the  ordinary 
reasons— the  natives  v/ere  fond  of  human  flesh,  could 
easily  have  overpowered  the  "  pilgrims/'  had  no  moral' 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST         WS 


scruples,  could  never  have  been  caught,  and,  at  any 
rate,  could  not  have  been  worse  off  than  they  were  ; 
the  sailors  were  not  in  the  grip  of  habit  (the  captain 
was  a  new  one),  or  impressed  by  his  sense  of  superior 
knowledge  (they  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  irresponsible),  or  frightened  of  the  law  (men  about 
to  drown  don't  care  a  jot  for  that).  The  truth  is,  in 
both  these  cases  we  are  in  the  presence  of  the  thing - 
in-itself — a  very  real  and  a  very  incomprehensible 
power. 

Thus  does  Conrad  probe  into  people's  minds. 
I  often  think  that  [the  wonderful  reality  of  Conrad' s"^ 
main  figures  must  come  from  the  fact  that  the  majority  / 
of  them  are  either  actual  people  or  built  up  of  char^  ( 
acteristics    belonging    to    people    Conrad    has    meLj 
f¥oY  their  reality  has   a  photographic  fidelity   seen,' 
las  it  were,  through  the  rosy  light  of  remembrance. 
They  stand  before  us  in  the  intimate  silence  of  ghostly 
friends.     So  it  appears  to  me  at  any  rate.     I  seem  to 
know  the  characters  of  Conrad's  people  in  the  same 
way  as,  shutting  my  eyes,  I  knov/  the  characters  of 
people  I  am  constantly  meeting.     This,  I  repeat,  is 
an  effect  which  one  would  suppose  could  only  have 
been  aroused  by  his  people  being  drawn  from  genuine 
types — though  I  bear  in  mind  the  ability  of  atmosphere 
to  create  figures  strongly  and  convincingly  in  accord- 
ance  with   the    author's    own    predilections.      And, 
indeed,    one   notices   that   Conrad   (especially   in   his 
portraits  of  women)  is  more  successful  the  nearer  he 
approaches  to  what  is  apparently  his  ideal.     Probably 
that  is  a  trait  one  could  observe  in  most  novelists — 
though,    assuredly,    some    can    only    achieve    reality 
in  minor  types.     Such  writers  are  so  taken  up  with 
describing  the  remarkable  qualities  of  their  favourites 
that    their   actuality    is    positively    choked    in    the 


104  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


process,  and  it  is  the  lesser  figures  that  emerge 
triumphant.  |But  Conrad's  reahsm  mounts  with  his 
enthusiasm]  In  all  his  novels  what  women  are 
dearer  to  him  than  Mrs  Gould  (Nostromo)  and  Winnie 
Verloc  {The  Secret  Agent)  ? — and  what  women  are 
more  life-like  ? 

The  more  I  study  Conrad's  characters,  men  and 
women  alike,  the  more  astonished  am  I  at  the\|ntuition 
and  creative  energy  of  their  author.  I  think  of  a  book 
like  Nostromo,  where  a  crowd  of  actors,  defined  and 
differentiated,  passes  ceaselessly  before  my  eyes,  or 
of  a  story  like  "  The  End  of  the  Tether  "where  the 
few  men  on  board  the  steamer  are  as  alive  to  my 
intelligence  as  my  closest  friends,  and  I  try  to  discover 
f^hat  I  may  call  the  intim^e  secret  ^jMth^i^^  — 
that  secret  which  yields  so  little  to  abstract  explana- 
tion. And  I  believe  the  key  to  it  all  lies,  fundament- 
ally, in_a  sympathetic4)resenta^^  l^do  not  mean 
in  the  least  that  even  the  majority  of  Conrad's  people 
are  particularly  sympathetic  either  to  Conrad  or 
Conrad's  readers,  but  what  I  do  mean  is  thatrConrad 
puts  himself,  his  readers,  and  his  characters  on  an 
identical  levei?\»  One  feels  oneself  on  the  same  plane 
as  Conrad,  and  one  is  sure  also  that  Conrad  feels 
himself  on  the  same  plane  as  his  readers  and  his  figures. 
No  doubt  this  is  mainly  true  of  people  who  happen 
to  find  themselves  sympathetic  to  Conrad's  personality, 
but  I  think  Conrad  always  tries  to  make  that  impression 
— for  those  who  are  in  sympathy  with  Conrad  are 
sympathetic  in  a  very  special  sense. 

And  here  I  might  say  that  what  Conrad  admires 
in  character  is  more  or  less  what  every  one  admires 
whose  mind  is  not  given  over  to  the  false  casuistry  that 
lies  behind  so  many  modern  revaluations.  He  admires 
courage,  compassion,  honour,  endurance,  and  in  the 


\ 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST         105 

ordinary  interpretation  that  all  sensible  persons 
allow  them.  But,  indeed,  I  cannot  express  Conrad's 
own  views  more  justly  than  in  his  own  words.  In 
the  introductory  chapter  to  Some  Reminiscences  he 
remarks  : — 

Those  who  read  me  know  my  conviction  that  the  world, 
the  temporal  world,  rests  on  a  few  very  simple  ideas  ;  so 
simple  that  they  must  be  as  old  as  the  hills.  It  rests  notably,, 
amongst  others,  on  the  idea  of  Fidelity.  At  a  time  when 
nothing  which  is  not  revolutionary  in  some  way  or  other 
can  expect  to  attract  much  attention  I  have  not  been  revolu- 
tionary in  my  writings.  The  revolutionary  spirit  is  mighty 
convenient  in  this,  that  it  frees  one  from  all  scruples  as 
regards  ideas.  Its  hard,  absolute  optimism  is  repulsive 
to  my  mind  by  the  menace  of  fanaticism  and  intolerance  it 
contains.  No  doubt  one  should  smile  at  these  things  ;  but, 
imperfect  Esthete,  I  am  no  better  Philosopher.  All  claim  to 
special  righteousness  awakens  in  me  that  scorn  and  anger 
from  which  a  philosophical  mind  should  be  free.  {Some 
Reminiscences,  pp.  20-1.) 

.^ll^onrad's  characters  have,  of  course,  some  tinge 
of  the  complexion  of  Conrad's  own  personality.  To 
deny  that  would  be  absurd — even  a  Blue  Book  has 
some  sort  of  a  tinge  about  it.  And  consequently, 
as  with  all  writers,  there  are  bound  to  be  certain 
minds  more  in  sympathy  with  his  projections  than 
others.  It  is  a  bond  which  has,  directly,  little  to  do 
with  the  characters  themselves.  But  it  is  precisely  on 
sympathies  and  antipathies  of  this  subtle  order  that 
the  ship  of  criticism  gets  wrecked.  To  many  people 
the  irony  or  the  sombre  romance  of  so  much  of 
Conrad's  psychology  is  sure  to  give  offence,  just  as 
to  many  it  will  be  the  very  core  of  his  achievement. 
For  there  are  innumerable  planes  not  only  in  people's 
outlook  on  life  but  actually  in  their  realisation  of 
personality.      There    are    some,    undoubtedly,    who 


106  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


would  consider  the  compassionate  and  touching  figures 
of  Mrs  Gould  and  Winnie  Verloc  as  merely  tiresome 
nonentities,  just  as  some  might  suppose  Tolsto^^'s  Anna 
Karenina  or  Natasha  Rostov  to  be  merely  profligate 
and  troublesome  fools.  Well,  let  it  be  so.  We  know 
better.  But,  indeed,  the  "  tinge  "  of  an  author  goes 
still  deeper.  The  creations  of  one  mind  may  be 
presented  without  personal  bias,  but  they  must  in- 
evitably bear  the  impress  of  their  creator.  And  that 
is  where  the  difficulty  of  comparing  one  author  to 
another  is  so  evident — for  how  can  one  adjudicate  on 
the  clash  of  temperaments  ?  True,  the  critic  is  only 
interested  in  the  result,  but  that,  again,  arises  from 
individual  preference,  and  individual  preference  arises 
from  natural  sympathies  or  antipathies.  I  do  not 
say  that  the  wisest  criticism  has  not  stepped  beyond 
this  vicious  circle  to  some  extent,  but  I  do  say  that  the 
ideal  critic  has  yet  to  be  born. 

But  from  my  own  point  of  view,  which  is  sympa- 
thetic, I  would  say  that  [jConrad's  powers  of  psy-  % 
chology  are  impressive,  because,  putting  aside  all  n 
questions  of  temperament,  his  characters  do  convince 
us  that  they  are  generally  unaware  that  they  exist 
only  as  figments  of  one  brainj  I  daresay  this  may' ' 
appear  a  fanciful  and  silly  remark,  but  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  reality  of  any  figure  is  in  inverse 
ratio  to  its  obvious  dependence  on  outside  assistance 
— which  may  be  direct,  as  in  the  case  of  those  clever 
writers  whose  characters  merely  reflect  them  or  their 
opposites,  or  which  may  be  oblique  as  in  the  case  of 
those  ingenious  people  who  float  their  characters 
along  on  the  tides  of  coincidence  or  improbable 
adventure,  but  which,  in  either  event,  is  ruinous  to 
the  principles  of  fictional  reality.  Only  books  that 
appear  to  write  themselves,  only  characters  that  appear  - 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST         107 


to  live  naturally,  can  be  truly  effective.  Here,  no 
doubt,  I  am  poaching  on  a  subject  developed  in  my 
chapter  on  Conrad's  art,  but  I  do  so  without  regret. 
It  is  a  point  that  has  to  be  mentioned  in  this  special 
connection. 

Where  Conrad  fails  most  as  a  psychologist  (I  am 
not  talking  about  his  individual  failures,  you  under- 
stand) is,  I  think,  in  a  certain  aristocratic  disregard 
for  universal  types  with  a  popular  appeaE]  Not  one 
of  his  figures  is  ever  likely  to  be  even  so  limited  a 
household  word  as,  say,  are  the  figures  of  Flaubert's 
Madame  Bovary  or  Turgenev's  Bazarov.  There  is 
something  secluded  about  Conrad's  mind,  something 
aloof,  which  prevents  him  creating,  with  the  widest 
sympathy,  a  representative  figure.  Lord  Jim  {Lord 
Jim)  is  his  nearest  approach  to  such  a  person,  but 
Lord  Jim  is  far  from  being  one  of  his  really  successful 
men.  You  have  only  to  read  Conrad  to  feel,  at  once, 
that  he  will  never  be  popular  in  the  sense  that  some 
of  the  greatest  novelists  are  popular.  It  is  not  that 
he  lacks  fire,  beauty,  subtlety — he  has  them  all  in 
marvellous  profusion — but  it  is,  I  think,  that  he  lacks 
those  tremendous  personal  feelings  on  elemental  ques- 
tions that  Hft  the  creations  of  the  Russians  to  a 
pitch  of  epic  grandeurj 

The  truth  is,  1  Conrad  is  more  concerned  with  the 
^-ife-blood  of  his  characters  than  with  placing  them 
in  effective  positions.]  He  is,  of  course,  a  very  moving 
vmter,  but  to  be  moving  is  not  his  primary  aim. 
His  primary  aim  is  fidelity  to  his  original  conception. 
It  is  that  which  attracts  his  main  attention,  and  it 
is  that  wliich,  in  its  logical  result,  tends  to  ahenate 
the  popular  sympathy.  It  is  over  such  a  point  one 
realises  Conrad's  very  real  affinity  with  Flaubert.  For 
Conrad's  interest  in  the  psychology  of  his  figures  has 


108  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


a  passionate  intensity  that  disdains  all  meretricious 
aid  in  its  development  or  exposure.  His  is  the  mind 
of  the  true  artist,  the  mind  that  never  flags  in  its 
profound  effort  to  keep  the  illusion  it  has  created  in 
the  very  forefront  of  the  picture.  Nor  does  he,  in 
his  best  work,  as  is  so  often  charged  against  him, 
achieve  his  results  by  redundancy.  Quite  the  reverse, 
lie  achieves  them  by  restraint,  imagination,  tireless 
care.  And  in  achieving  them  he  is  quite  content  to 
miss  the  more  striking  eiiects  of  others./  Even  in 
Conrad's  earlier  works,  where  the  physical  aspect  of 
the  tropics  is  thrust  so  stridently  upon  the  screen,  it 
would  be  a  mistake  not  to  see  that  this  is  largely  a  de- 
vice for  throwing  into  stronger  relief  the  realism  of  the 
actors.  I  am  not  going  so  far  as  to  say  that  Conrad 
has  not  often,  very  often,  allowed  his  unrivalled  powers 
of  description  to  carry  him  away  on  the  swell  of  their 
own  music,  but  I  am  going  to  say  that  the  unity  of  his 
work  is  for  ever  at  the  back  of  his  mind  and  that  this 
unity  revolves,  primarily,  round  the  realism  of  his 
characters,  tif  he  has,  as  I  have  asserted  elsewhere, 
"  a  passion  for  his  theme,"  he  has  also  a  passionate 
regard  for  the  nuances  of  psychology.  He  is  the 
most  incorruptible  of  artists  in  that  he  cannot  be  lured 
from  his  aim  by  the  promise  of  a  great  reward — the 
reward  of  universal  esteem. 

But  notwithstanding  all  that  I  have  said  about 
Conrad's  inherent  incapacity  to  become  widely 
appreciated,  I  want  to  insist  plainly  that  lie  has,  as 
very  few  other  people  have,  the  abihty  to  make  his 
characters  thrilling^  This,  again,  is  a  subject  which 
I  discuss  elsewhere7so  I  will  only  mention  here  that 
by  thrilling  I  imply  something  almost  indescribable, 
something  intimate,  like  the  familiar  excitement  of 
a  dream.     Who,  for  example,  could  be  more  thrilhng 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST  109 

in  this  strange  way  than  Harry  Hagberd  ("  To- 
morrow"), Mr  Kurtz  ("Heart  of  Darkness"),  or 
Falk  ("Falk"),  with  the  shuddering  motion  of  his 
hands,  **  the  vague  stir  of  the  passionate  and 
meaningless  gesture  "  ? 

For  [Conrad's  psychology  is  not  alone  painstak- 
ing, it  is  enlivened  throughout  by  flashes  of  high 
genius — by  these  sudden  revealing  glimpses  that 
explain  more  than  do  fifty  laborious  pages.  His 
imagination  has  an  insight  which  seems  to  pierce 
beyond  that  conventional  depth  which  so  few  writers 
in  the  world  have  ever  passed.  This  is  no  exaggera- 
tion. Conrad's  originality  is  of  the  order  that  goes 
straight  to  bed-rock  instead  of  dispersing  itself  in  a 
thousand  curious  fancies.  That  is  why  any  one  of 
his  great  figures  is  worth  the  whole  gallery  of  a  Bernard 
Shaw,  and  that  is  why  almost  any  figure  of  a  Bernard 
Shaw  is  more  popular  than  the  whole  of  Conrad. 
(And  when  I  say  '*  popular  "  I  refer  to  another  kind  of 
popularity  than  I  was  referring  to  a  moment  ago — 
Shaw's  figures  are  not  popular  in  the  same  way  that 
Tolstoy's  are.)  __ 

And  we  should  observe  that  Conrad's  psychology 
is  inductive,  and  that  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why 
its  very  unexpectedness  is  yet  perfectly  natural. J  It 
is  just  as  in  real  life,  where  people  we  are  intimately 
acquainted  with  will  often  surprise  us  but  seldom 
greatly  bewilder  us,  for  the  reason  that  their  unlooked- 
for  actions  have,  at  base,  a  familiar  aspect  when  we 
think  them  over.  That  is  about  the  nearest  we  can 
get  to  understand  anyone.  For  no  one  in  real  life 
has  the  freedom  from  complexity  of  characters  in 
fiction.  It  is  in  the  comprehension  of  this  that 
Conrad  proves  himself  the  most  realistic  of  novelists. 
For  the  deductive  is  the  usual  attitude  assumed  by 


no  JOSEPH  CONRAD  I 

novelists,  and  the  deductive  has  always  the,  snare  of 
simplicity. 

And  one  must  also  remember  thai;' Conrad,  from  an 
artistic  point  of  view,  is  at  least  as  much  interested 
in  personality  (which  is  the  actual  impression  created 
by  a  figure  on  other  people's  minds),  as  in  character 
(which  is  what  a  figure  really  is).*  The  conception  of 
personahty  is,  of  course,  relative  to  the  person  who 
receives  it,  but  character  is  absolute.  Conrad's 
people  affect  different  readers  very  differently  and 
for  this  very  reason.  But  all  the  same  one  can 
easily  ascertain  the  author's  own  opinion  (internal 
evidence  shows  it  quite  clearly,  as  a  rule),  and  that  is 
the  one  we  will  be  safest  in  accepting. 

But    to    know    Conrad's    finest    figures    as    they 
should  be  known  you  must  have  tasted  romance. 
For  that  vague  and  secret  murmur  is  in  their  hearts  as 
surely  as  the  murmur  of  the  sea  is  in  the  heart  of  a  ■ 
shell.     It  invests  them  with  a  something  that  is  more  , 
than  charm — that  something  which  is  romance  itself. 
Such  people  as  Hermann's  niece  {"  Falk  ")   or  Dain 
Maroola  [Ahnayer's  Folly)  have  no  need  to  speak — 
we  know  their  hidden  and  romantic  hearts  by  intui- 
tion.   \Conrad  can  impart  a  w^onderful,  rich  glow  to 
his  figures.     And  in  that  light  they  seem  close  to    , 
us,  without  a  word  being  spoken.     Of  course,  it  is 
another  manifestation  of  atmosphere,  but    it   is  not  N 
only  atmosphere — it  is  romance  as  well.     For  Conrad 
is  the  most  romantic  of  writersT]  And  if  romance;^ '; 
or  rather  the  early  romantic  manner — for  a  book  like 
Chance  is  deeply  romantic  in  another  way — is  now 
fading  before  a  purer  psychology  (as  it  is  in  his  later 
books),  there  will  always  be  ^ people  like  myself  who 
believe  that  his  psychology  has  never  been  truer  than 
in  the  instinctive  insight  of  his  romantic  portraitsTJ 


CONRAD  AS  PSYCHOLOGIST         111 


There  is  just  one  more  thing  I  would  Hke  to 
emphasise  aboutYConrad's  psychology,  and  that  is  its 
modernity  and  th^  quality  of  its  modernity.  He 
has  the  Slav  capacity  for  comprehending  the  minds 
of  to-day  without  placing  them,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
problems  of  to-day.)  There  is  all  the  difference  in 
the  world.  Writers  like  Ibsen  and  Strindberg  perceive 
the  unrest  of  the  present,  but  they  always  seem 
to  perceive  it  in  a  local  setting.  That,  probably,  is 
because  they  are  really  morahsts  at  heart.  But 
writers  like  Tolstoy  and  Dostoievsky  read  as  fresh 
to-day  as  they  did  forty  years  ago — indeed,  I  have 
little  doubt  that  they  read  fresher.  And,  as  far  as 
I  can  judge,  the  characters  of  a  book  like  Nostromo 
or  like  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  will  always 
be  modern.  It  is. the  characters  of  a  book  such  as 
Lord  Jim,  where  the  moralist  has  got  a  good  hold,  that 
will  become  old-fashioned,  as  the  people  in  the  plays 
of  Tbseii  and  Strindberg  (and  many  more)  are  already 
^  becoming  old-fashioned.  Perennial  youth  belongs  to 
the  great  imaginative  artists,  and  to  them  alone. 

So  now  I  think  I  have  covered  most  of  the  points 
that  one  has  to  remember  in  considering  Conrad's 
men  and  women.  I  am  conscious  that  I  have  not 
explained  myself  any  too  lucidly,  and  I  am  conscious, 
moreover,  that  I  have  dealt  with  some  aspects  that 
are  more  or  less  self-evident.  But  it  is  better  to  round 
the  subject  off.  I  need  only  add  that  this  chapter 
can  serve  no  purpose  unless  read  in  conjunction  with 
the  two  that  succeed  it.  The  abstract  views  of  a 
novelist  may  be  interesting — must  be  interesting, 
one  might  say,  in  the  case  of  a  distinguished  man — but 
they  are  not  what  we  are  really  concerned  with. 
What  we  are  really  concerned  with  is  his  power  to 
"  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep." 


VOvV 


CHAPTER  VI 

Conrad's  men 

I  HAVE  been  making  a  list  of  the  more  important  men 
in  Conrad's  books  and  I  find  that  I  have  jotted  down 
the  names  of  about  ninety  individuals.  I  could 
continue  it,  no  doubt,  to  one  hundred  and  ninety — 
on  each  one  of  which  something  deserves  to  be  said. 
But,  of  course,  there  is  no  room  for  that  here,  and  I 
will  have  to  content  myself  with  picking  and  choosing. 
It  is  not  satisfactory.  Far  from  it.  For  even  so  I 
am  compelled  to  avoid  any  real  analysis.  I  am  not 
exaggerating  in  the  least  if  I  say  that  I  could  write 
a  book  of  five  hundred  pages  on  Conrad's  men.  And 
some  one  will  do  it  one  of  these  days.  V-For  in  them  is 
the  richest  mine  of  psychology  that  our  generation 
has  known.  With  their  endless  variety,  with  their 
exotic  atmosphere,  with  their  individuality  of  high 
romance  and  imagination,  they  have  quite  altered 
the  face  of  modern  literature^ 

And  about  Conrad's  men  as  a  class  there  is  one 
thing  that  strikes  me  especially.  Some  of  them  are 
noble  and  some  of  them  are  vile,  but  (ill  his  men  are 
7ne}i?^  They  live  in  an  actual  world  and  not  in  a  mere 
structure  of  fancy  or  conceit,  they  are  faced  with  the 
problems  of  real  life  and  not  with  the  ridiculous 
problems  that  stand  for  life  to  a  certain  class  of 
intellectual.  Moreover,  they  are  men  in  that  their 
outlook  is  essentially  male — the  atmosphere  of  mascu- 
linity pervades  Conrad's  men  convincingly.    There  is 


CONRAD'S  MEN  US 


no  such  thing  as  a  sexless  person  in  Conrad,  although 
sex  itself  is  almost  always  treated  from  its  romantic 
side.  Conrad  never  creates  a  man  simply  to  mouth 
advanced  opinions.  He  never  does,  partly  because 
it  would  be  abhorrent  to  him  and  partly  because  his 
men  do  not  belong  to  cliques  of  this  order.  Who- 
ever goes  to  Conrad's  characters  for  pronouncements 
will  come  away  disappointed,  fit  is  the  problems 
of  life  that  interest  Conrad,  not  the  problems  of 
intellectualismj  ^ 

But  what  one  does  see  in  [Conrad's  finest  men  is  a 
certain  rare  sensitiveness  tjiat,  in  the  complete  mascu- 
linity of  th^'cTiar actors",''  ^hows  a  graceful,  feminine 
touch — the  touch  of  pity,  self-sacrifice,  and  un- 
selfishness. J  Where  Conrad  reveals  his  really  marvel- 
lous knowledge  of  the  mental  differences  between 
men  and  women  is  just  in  these  types  in  which  the 
two  sexes  draw  closer  together.  A  man  like  Captain 
Anthony  in  Chance  is  as  sensitive,  as  compassionate 
as  a  woman,  but  there  is,  at  heart,  nothing  passive 
in  him.  He  has  the  delicate  temperament  of  a 
woman  but  he  has  the  active  temperament  of  a  man. 
Indeed  one  can  only  call  his  feelings  "feminine" 
because  it  is  the  word  generally  applied  to  such 
feelings — they  are  not  feminine  at  all  in  the  true 
meaning  of  the  word.  There  is  nothing  remotely 
capricious  about  Captain  Anthony.  He  is  reason- 
able, so  reasonable  that  he  cannot  bear  to  see  suffer- 
ing wJiich  he  beheves  he  can  and  ought  to  remedy. 
Captain  Anthony  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  attractive 
men  in  Conrad's  books— an. unusual  type,  but  a  per- 
fectly real  one — humble,  chivalrous,  extraordinarily 
vehement  when  once  aroused.  His  is  a  nature  capable 
of  boundless  pity,  and  consequently  there  is  something 
bitterly  tragic  in  the  way  in  which  he  begins  to  realise 

H 


114  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

that  what  he  beUeved  to  be  irresistible — his  capacity 
for  suffering  that  others  might  not  suffer — has.  its 
limitations  :  when  he  begins  to  see  that  all  the  might 
of  his  compassion  is  powerless  to  help  Flora  de  Barral. 
(That  it  was  a  mistake  softens  for  us  the  effect  but 
does  not  alter  the  poignancy  of  the  mood.) 
\  Another  of  the  finest  men  in  Conrad's  books  is 
^'Captain  Whalley  in  "  The  End  of  the  Tether."  His  is 
the  mute  self-sacrifice  of  parental  love — -a  sacrifice  as 
complete,  as  utterly  without  alloy  as  that  of  Balzac's 
Pere  Goriot.  In  him,  far  more  than  in  that  other 
doting  father,  Almayer  (of  whom  the  words  are  spoken) , 
is  the  true  "  anguish  of  paternity."  No  portrait  in 
Conrad  is  more  vivid  than  the  portrait  of  Whalley, 
the  big,  dignified,  silent  sea-captain.  After  long  years 
of  prosperity  we  see  him  at  last  on  board  the  Sofala, 
hke  a  superb  old  animal  surrounded  by  yapping  dogs. 
The  more  he  is  insulted  by  the  mean  sneers  and 
innuendoes  of  Massy  or  Sterne,  the  more  he  is  bowed 
down  by  the  horror  of  advancing  blindness  and  by 
the  great  desolation  of  his  lonely  old  age,  the  more 
does  he  retire  into  himself,  thanking  God  for  his  happy 
life,  thinking  of  his  loved  ones,  with  the  image  of  his 
daughter  ever  nearest  his  heart.  His  steadfast  love 
covers  with  a  warm  and  passionate  glow  the  thought 
of  that  little  girl  (no  longer  young  to  anyone  but  him) 
living  her  hard  life  in  Australia.  Captain  Whalley' s 
end  is,  of  course,  a  tragic  and  terrible  end,  but  there 
is  something  so  touching  and  beautiful  in  the  quality 
of  his  devotion  that  it  illumines  the  whole  story  with 
the  soft  atmosphere  of  triumphant  love. 

And  talking  of  Captain  Whalley  one  may  notice 

^Conrad's    admirable    success     in   drawing    old    men. 

He  has  caught,  better  than  anyone  I  know,  the  set 

attitude     and    the    aloofness,     that    air    of    living 


CONRADS  MEN  115 


in  the  past,  which  is  the  very  breath  of  old  age^ 
Consider  such  a  figure  as  that  of  the  Garibaldino, 
Viola,  in  Nostromo.  He  resembles  a  prodigious  relic 
of  a  time  that  is  already  forgotten,  dreaming  amidst 
the  crash  of  revolution  of  a  greatness  that  has  died 
out  of  the  world.  The  majestic  calmness  of  his 
bearing,  the  austerity  of  his  manner,  is  broken  now 
and  again  by  a  fit  of  petulance,  as  though  he  were 
suddenly  to  wake  from  his  memories  to  the  stupid 
inanities  of  the  present.  In  the  last  few  pages  of 
Nostromo,  in  that  terrible  climax  of  old  Viola's  failing 
powers,  we  are  told  that  his  daughter  Linda  did  not 
dare  to  look  at  him  because  he  "  filled  her  with  an 
almost  unbearable  feeling  of  pity  "  ;  and  I  think  that 
every  reader  must  experience  the  same  emotion.  There 
is  something  about  him  then  at  once  so  august  and  so 
pitiful  that  it  is  heartbreaking  to  watch  the  flicker  of 
his  life.  Do  you  remember  how,  after  he  had  shot 
his  future  son-in-law,  supposing  him  to  be  "  Rami- 
rez the  vagabond,"  and  Linda  had  suddenly  laughed 
insanely  in  his  face,  "  he  joined  her  faintly  in  a  deep- 
toned  and  distant  echo  of  her  peals  "  ?  That  touch, 
especially,  always  seems  to  me  strangely  pathetic. 
However,  I  will  speak  no  more  of  this  poor  old 
man,  but  will  give  the  eloquent  description  of  his 
death — a  description  taken  from  a  long  passage  I  have 
quoted  fully  in  another  chapter  : — 

Very  upright,  white-haired,  leonine,  heroic  in  his  absorbed 
quietness,  he  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  red  shirt  for  the  spectacles 
given  him  by  Doiia  Emilia.  He  put  them  on.  After  a  long 
period  of  immobility  he  opened  the  book,  and  from  on  high 
looked  through  the  glasses  at  the  small  print  in  double 
columns.  A  rigid,  stern  expression  settled  upon  his  features 
with  a  slight  frown,  as  if  in  response  to  some  gloomy  thought 
or  unpleasant  sensation.     But  he  never  detached  his  eyes 


116  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

from  the  book  while  he  swayed  forward^  gently,  gradually, 
till  his  snow-white  head  rested  upon  the  open  pages.  A 
wooden  clock  ticked  methodically  on  the  white-washed 
wall,  and  growing  slowly  cold  the  Garibaldino  lay  alone, 
rugged,  undecayed,  like  an  old  oak  uprooted  by  a  treacherous 
gust  of  wind.   (Nosiromo,  p.  479.) 

Another  old  man  whose  portrait  is  extremely  good 
is  Don  Balthasar  Riego  in  Romance.  He  is  simply 
aristocratic  old  age  personified.  He  is  as  entirely 
out  of  the  world  as  though  he  were  dead.  He  lives 
in  a  mist  of  ancient  courtesies  and  of  memories  of  by- 
gone days.  The  present  to  him  is  as  truly  non-existent, 
in  all  the  essentials  of  change  and  activity,  as  his 
illusionary  world  is  real  and  important.  In  the 
mumblings  of  his  weary  voice  a  whole  vanished  order 
seems  to  live  again. 

And  Captain  Beard  in  "  Youth  "  gives  us  the  sense 
of  age  very  strongly.  He  is  a  great  figure  in  his  dogged 
resolve  to  bring  his  first  command  safe  to  her  destina- 
tion. But  he  is  seen  through  the  cruel  and  romantic 
eyes  of  youth  as  a  little  old  man  who  can  actually 
fall  asleep  on  the  deck  of  his  burning  vessel.  It  is 
fond  recollection,  alone,  which  yields  to  him  the  grand 
aspect  of  hardihood  and  resolve.  Captain  Beard  is  a 
personality  appearing  before  us  in  the  subdued  twilight 
of  old  age  and  of  long  subordination. 
^^^^nd  finally,  in  this  connection,  let  me  call  your 
'/attention  to  Singleton  {The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "), 
the  old  sailor  of  the  Narcissus.  He  is  truly  a  magnifi- 
cent survival  of  the  sea — a  figure  of  epic"  size  and 
compass,  typifying  with  his  aged,  vacant  mind  and 
his  habits  of  endurance  and  sagacity  the  very  life  of 
the  ocean  and  of  its  voyagers.  Singleton  is  a  symbolic 
figure.  He  represents  the  eternal  conflict  of  man  and 
the  elements.     He  is  as  immortal  as  the  sea  itself — as 


CONRAD'S  MEN  117 


immortal,  as  empty,  and  as  inscrutably  wise.  There 
are  two  descriptions  of  him  in  the  earlier  pages  of  The 
Nigger  of  the  "Narcissus,"  which  I  shall  quote  here: — 

Singleton  stood  at  the  door  with  his  face  to  the  Hght  and 
his  back  to  the  darkness.  And  alone  in  the  dim  emptiness 
of  the  sleeping  forecastle  he  appeared  bigger,  colossal,  very 
old ;  old  as  Father  Time  himself,  who  should  have  come 
there  into  this  place  as  quiet  as  a  sepulchre  to  contemplate 
with  patient  eyes  the  short  victory  of  sleep,  the  consoler. 
Yet  he  was  only  a  child  of  time,  a  lonely  relic  of  a  devoured 
and  forgotten  generation.  He  stood,  still  strong,  as  ever 
unthinking  ;  a  ready  man  with  a  vast  empty  past  and  with 
no  future,  with  his  childlike  impulses  and  his  man's  passions 
already  dead  within  his  tattooed  breast  (The  Nigger  of  the 
"Narcissus,''  pp.  33-4.)  „^ 

Till  then  he  had  been  standing  meditative  and  unthinkmg, 
reposeful  and  hopeless,  with  a  face  grim  and  blank — a  sixty- 
year-old  child  of  the  mysterious  sea.  The  thoughts  of  all 
his  lifetime  could  have  been  expressed  in  six  words,  but  the 
stir  of  those  things  that  were  as  much  part  of  his  existence  as 
his  beating  heart  called  up  a  gleam  of  alert  understanding 
upon  the  sternness  of  his  aged  face  {The  Nigger  of  the 
"Narcissus,"  p.  2>^.) 

The  sea  is,  indeed,  a  strong  agency  in  moulding  the 
characters  of  many  of  Conrad's  men.  For  its  vigour 
enters  into  nearly  all  his  books.  The  finest  and  the 
most  typical  men  in  Conrad's  stories  are  seamen. 
It  is  a  life  that  appeals  to  him  through  the  qualities 
of  courage,  simplicity,  and  realism  that  it  engenders. 
His  true  seamen  are  mostly  men  of  character.  There 
are  exceptions,  of  course,  but  the  exceptions  seem  to 
belong  to  a  different  breed.  We  feel,  for  instance, 
that  Donkin  [The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  ")  is  really 
a  cockney  guttersnipe,  that  the  second  mate  of  the 
Nan  Shan  ("Typhoon")  is  really  a  hopeless  beach- 
comber, that  Massy  ("The  End  of  the  Tether")  is 


118  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

really  a  gambler  fallen  into  the  wrong  place.  It  is 
curious  that  Conrad  should  have  left  particularly 
expressive  portraits  of  these  men.  Just  let  me 
repeat  what  he  says  of  Donkin  : — 

He  stood  with  arms  akimbo,  a  little  fellow  with  white 
eyelashes.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  known  all  the  degradations 
and  all  the  furies.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  cuffed, 
kicked,  rolled  in  the  mud  ;  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
scratched,  spat  upon,  pelted  with  unmentionable  filth  .  .  . 
and  he  smiled  with  a  sense  of  security  at  the  faces  around. 
His  ears  were  bending  down  under  the  weight  of  his  battered 
hard  hat.  The  torn  tails  of  his  black  coat  flapped  in  fringes 
about  the  calves  of  his  legs.  He  unbuttoned  the  only  two 
buttons  that  remained  and  every  one  saw  he  had  no  shirt 
under  it.  It  was  his  deserved  misfortune  that  those  rags 
which  nobody  could  possibly  be  supposed  to  own  looked  on 
him  as  if  they  had  been  stolen.  His  neck  was  long  and  thin  ; 
his  eyelids  were  red  ;  rare  hairs  hung  about  his  jaws  ;  his 
shoulders  were  peaked  and  drooped  like  the  broken  wings  of 
a  bird  ;  all  his  left  side  was  caked  with  mud  which  showed 
that  he  had  lately  slept  in  a  wet  ditch.  {The  Nigger  of  the 
"  Narcissus/'  p.  ii.) 

And  here  is  what  he  says  of  the  second  mate  in 
"  Typhoon  "  : — 

With  his  sharp  nose,  red  at  the  tip,  and  his  thin  pinched 
lips,  he  always  looked  as  though  he  were  raging  inwardly  ; 
and  he  was  concise  in  his  speech  to  the  point  of  rudeness. 
All  his  time  off  duty  he  spent  in  his  cabin  with  the  door  shut, 
keeping  so  still  in  there  that  he  was  supposed  to  fall  asleep 
as  soon  as  he  had  disappeared  ;  but  the  man  who  came  in 
to  wake  him  for  his  watch  on  deck  would  invariably  find  him 
with  his  eyes  wide  open,  flat  on  his  back  in  the  bunk,  and 
glaring  irritably  from  a  soiled  pillow.  He  never  wrote  any 
letters,  did  not  seem  to  hope  for  news  from  anywhere  ;  and 
though  he  had  been  heard  once  to  mention  West  Hartlepool, 
it  was  with  extreme  bitterness,  and  only  in  connection  with 
the  extortionate  charges  of  a  boarding-house.  He  was  one 
of  those  men  who  are  picked  up  at  need  in  the  ports  of  the 


CONRAD'S  MEN  119 


world.  They  are  competent  enough,  appear  hopelessly 
hard  up,  show  no  evidence  of  any  sort  of  vice,  and  carry 
about  them  all  the  signs  of  manifest  failure.  They  come  on 
board  on  an  emergency,  care  for  no  ship  afloat,  live  in  their 
own  atmosphere  of  casual  connection  amongst  their  ship- 
mates, who  know  nothing  of  them,  and  make  up  their  minds 
to  leave  at  inconvenient  times.  They  clear  out  with  no 
words  of  leave-taking  in  some  God-forsaken  port  other  men 
would  fear  to  be  stranded  in,  and  go  ashore  in  company  of  a 
shabby  sea-chest,  corded  like  a  treasure-box,  and  with  an 
air  of  shaking  the  ship's  dust  off  their  feet.  {Typhoon, 
"  Typhoon,"  p.  31.) 

I  have  given  these  two  rather  long  extracts,  partly 
to  prove  my  contention  that  Conrad's  bad  seamen 
are  not  really  seamen  at  all,  but  mainly  to  give  ex- 
amples of  his  graphic  power  of  throwing  a  pictm-e  before 
our^yes.  He  creates  his  first  impression  of  a  figure 
at  one  touch,  although  the  total  impression  is  developed 
psychologically  through  the  slow  process  of  accumu- 
lative effect.  I  speak  of  his  principal  figures — there 
are  others  that  live  almost  entirely  in  the  physical 
glimpses  we  obtain  of  them. 

But  to  return  to  what  I  was  saying — the  sea,  as 
I  have  remarked,  has  a  profound  influence  on  the  lives 
of  many  of  Conrad's  men.  It  seems  to  enter  into  their 
fibre  with  the  dim  romance,  with  the  incorruptible 
directness  of  its  appeal.  His  true  seamen  are  often 
childish,  generally  stupid  in  a  worldly  sense,  and 
invariably  artless.  But  their  very  immorahty  speaks 
of  the  healthiness  of  their  minds,  and  their  courage 
is  a  second  nature  to  them.  It  is  to  them  that  Conrad 
turns  joyfully  from  the  feverish  complexities  of  more 
intellectual  types.  One  notices  that  again  and  again. 
And  when  he  does  draw  a  man  of  character  who  is 
a  seaman,  he  draws  the  man,  whom,  of  all  others, 
be  admires  the  most.     But  it  is  in  describing  quite 


UO  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


plain  seamen  that  Conrad's  humour  is  m.ost  evident. 
There  is  no  irony  in  his  pictures  of  men  Uke  Frankhn 
{Chance),  Baker,  Creighton,  Captain  AlUstoun  {The 
Nigger  of  the  "Narcissus"),  Burns  ("A  Smile  of 
Fortune"),  Mahon  ("Youth"),  and  many  another  of 
their  kidney — at  least  no  irony  that  is  not  essenti- 
ally kind-hearted.  For  to  Conrad  they  are  the  really 
trustworthy  and  sincere  men,  these  wandering  sailors 
to  whom  the  work  of  each  day  is  the  main  problem  of 
existence. 

But  I  do  not  want  to  raise  the  irnpression  that 
Conrad  has  a   stereotyped  build   of   sailor  that   he 
duplicates    from    book    to    book.     That    is    untrue, 
although  I  would  admit  readil}/  enough  that  he  is  apt 
to  give  the  seamen  who  play  a  more  secondary  part 
in    his    stories    a    rather    similar    point    of    view. 
But   it   is  because  they   have   all  been  salted  with 
the  same  arduous  life.     No,  Conrad,  who,  as  I  pointed 
out  in  the  previous  chapter,  has  a  passion  for  develop- 
ing his  personalities,  creates  for  us  the  reality  of  each 
seaman,  as  of  each  other  figure,  with  authentic  effect. 
^^For  instance,  one  may  afhrm  that  a  certain  romantic 
j  light  covers,  alike,  all  the  seamen  and    the  officers 
1  aboard   the    Narcissus — but    where    could    one    find 
a  greater  capacity  for  managing   a   crowd   so   that 
each  member  stood  out  as  individual,  as  unforgettable 
I  as  do  the  separate  figures  of  the  most  powerful  groups 
of  sculpture  ?     Think  of  Donkin  and  Wait,  of  Singleton 
and  Podmore,  of  "  Belfast  "  and  Wamibo,  and  of  the 
three  officers  I  mentioned  above,  and  you  reaUse  at 
once  the  supreme  mastery  of  Conrad's  method. 
I     Let  me  speak  more  particularly  of  one  of  these  men 
I  ^of  James  Wait,  "  the  nigger  of  the  Narcissus."     This 
I  picture  of  a  dying  man,  supported  in  his  horrible  fear 
j  of  death  by  the  shadowy  splendour  of  his  own  presence 


CONRAD'S  MEN  ni 


and  by  a  sort  of  spurious  dignity,  is  subtle  and  grimly 
pathetic.  Wait  has  the  arrogant  superiority  of  an 
educated  negro,  and  the  sly  cunning  of  a  primeval 
race.  He  knows  to  the  very  last  ounce  how  to  make 
his  own  disease  the  object  of  pity  and  concession, 
and  yet  in  making  it  he  is  terrified  by  the  thought  of 
extinction.  He  has  a  lofty  grandeur  of  manner  which 
is  particularly  disconcerting,  but  it  mingles,  fantasti- 
cally, with  the  whining  of  a  slave.  There  is  a  thumb-  , 
nail  description  of  him  at  the  outset  of  the  book  which  /  / 
is  very  striking  : — 

He  held  his  head  up  in  the  glare  of  the  lamp — a  head 
vigorously  modelled  into  deep  shadov/s  and  shining  lights — 
a  head  powerful  and  misshapen  with  a  tormented  and  flattened 
face — a  face  pathetic  and  brutal :  the  tragic^  the  mysterious, 
the  repulsive  mask  of  a  nigger's  soul.  (The  Nigger  of  the 
"  Narcissus,"  p.  24.) 

As  I  am  speaking  here  of  the  negro  it  might  be  as 
well  if  I  said  something  now  of  Conrad's  pictures  of 
other  non-European  peoples.  The  East  Indies  have,"*^ 
of  course,  yielded  him  the  fierce  Malays  and  warlike 
races  of  those  half-savage  islands.  Such  men  as 
Babalatchi  {An  Outcast  of  the  Islands  and  Almayers 
Folly),  Dain  Maroola  [Almayers  Folly),  Arsat  ("The 
Lagoon"),  Karain  ("Karain"),  Doramin  and  Dain 
Waris  {Lord  Jim),  are  representative  types  of  East 
Indian  dwellers.  In  considering  such  men  Conrad 
neither  dehumanises  nor  Europeanises  the  Oriental 
mind.  It  is  true  that  they  are  swayed,  as  are  all  men. 
by  love  and  hatred,  by  happiness  and  misery,  by 
success  and  failure,  but,  with  it  all,  they  remain  still 
in  the  twilight  of  certain  preconceived  ideas — their 
horizons  seem  to  us  bounded  by  the  things  which  arc 
merely  part  of  our  emotions.  And  they  have  a  world 
of  their  own,   hidden  from   our  understanding— the 


12S  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

world  of  savage  fears  and  beliefs  that,  in  the  excess 
of  any  excitement,  may  swamp  that  other  world  in 
which  they  think  and  act  so  much  like  ourselves. 
It  is  this  alien  and  yet  human  mind  which,  as  the 
foundation  to  all  Eastern  personality,  Conrad  portrays 
wMch  such  curious  fidelity  and  insight. 

And    Conrad    understands    the    wild    melancholy, 
the  despairing  resignation  of  the  savage  heart.     In 
the  overwhelming  atmosphere  of  his  tropical  forests, 
the  fatalistic  spirit  of  the  wilderness  and  the  blind  and 
.y  j  patient  silence  of  the  woods  seem  to  find  their  echo 
'^^  \in  the  hearts  of  the  aboi;iginal  tribes.     Such  stories 
"""""^s  "  An  Outpost  of  Progress  "  and  "  Heart  of  Dark- 
ness "  resemble  a  vast  cry  of  anguish  and  bewilder- 
ment.    The  whole  sadness  and  dark  unrest  of  savage 
minds — I  mean  the  minds  of  real,  untutored  savages 
— is,  as  it  were,  summed  up  in  these  tremendous  words 
from  "  Heart  of  Darkness  "  : — 

A  great  silence  around  and  above.  Perhaps  on  some  quiet 
night  the  tremor  of  far-off  drums,  sinking,  swelling,  a  tremor 
vast,  faint ;  a  sound  weird,  appealing,  suggestive,  and  wild — 
and  perhaps  with  as  profound  a  meaning  as  the  sound  of 
bells  in  a  Christian  countrv.  {Youth,  "  Heart  of  Darkness," 
p.  80.) 

And  Conrad  can  impart  to  his  Easterns  the  high 
dignity  of  an  ancient  race.  The  AbduUa  of  Almayer's 
Folly  passes  onward  in  his  career  of  deception  and  faith 
with  the  slow  and  measured  step  of  a  True  Believer. 
In  him  is  the  very  essence  of  Arab  courtesy — the 
courtesy  that  hides  the  pliant  subtlety  of  the  Eastern 
mind  but  which  knows  no  relaxation  throughout  life. 
And  what  natural  dignity  there  is,  too,  in  such  a  man 
as  Doramin  (Lord  Jim).  They  are  aristocrats,  these 
Eastern  chiefs  and  traders  of  Conrad's  books. 

And  let  us  glance  now  at  a  white  man  of  the  East 


CONRAD'S  MEN  123 


— at  Jim,  the  principal  figure  in  Lord  Jim.  In  my 
previous  chapter  I  mentioned  a  tendency  in  Conrad 
to  make  his  men  subject  to  the  influence  of  an  idee 
fixe,  and  I  mentioned  also  that  it  was  difficult  to  see 
the  foundations  for  the  psychology  of  some  of  them. 
Jim  seems  to  me  a  case  in  point  of  both  these  things. 
It  is  hard  to  perceive  precisely  why  Conrad  should 
E^e  made  him  take  his  dishonouring  misfortune  with 
such  extreme  and  relentless  despair,  but  it  is  certainly 
true  that  he  does  become  the  victim  of  an  idee  fixe — 
the  idee  fixe  of  recovering  his  ho'nourT  Tcaiihof  quite 
agree'  f hat^Jim  is  as  true  to  life  as  Conrad  intended 
him  to  be — I  can  scarcely  believe  that  a  man  of  his 
rather  ordinary  calibre  (for  he  is  not  a  clever  man) 
and  his  robust  health  would  not  have  adjusted  his 
outlook,  after  a  time,  to  a  more  bearable  view 
of  life.  Of  course,  we  have  to  remember  that 
Jim's  character  (as  apart  from  his  intellect)  is  a 
very  unusual  one,  a  character  full  of  dramatic 
possibilities  and  an  almost  morbid  craving  to  dis- 
tinguish itself ;  but  I  think  we  must  see  that  nature 
ttoFTie  had  health  and  youth  on  his  side)  would  have 
healed  his  wound  in  spite  of  himself.  Whether  he  had 
wanted  to  or  no  he  would  have  lived  down  his  disgrace, 
just  as  one  lives  down  the  agony  of  unrequited  love, 
of  remorse,  and  of  death  itself — though  I  am  not 
saying  that  disgrace  may  not  be  the  worst  evil  of  all. 
Conrad  had  to  make  Jim  such  as  he  is  because  the  story 
demanded  it,  but,  though  there  may  be  exceptions 
in  which  a  picture  like  his  may  be  true,  they  must  be 
very  rare.  Indeed,  Jim  will  only  appear  fully  credible 
to  us  if  we  assume  that  he  is  not  jin  Englishman  at 
all  but  a  passionate  and  melancholyToIeV  Perhaps 
that  is  the  way  we  shoiild  consider  him.  An  English- 
man would  have  gone  about  for  a  few  years  with  a 


124  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

hang-dog  look  and  would  then  have  put  his  back  into 
some  solid  work  and  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  but 
a  Pole  would  brood  for  ever  on  his  lost  honour.  The 
unfortunate  thing  is  that  Jim  is  presented  as  an 
Englishmln,  and  we  are  compelled  to  criticise  him 
as  such.y  But  what  Conrad  does  succeed  in  suggesting 
with  great  ability  is  the  tyiy,_.jx>±teai._spcy;,  in  Jim's 
personality — the  little  canker,  which  jundermines  the 
whole  of  his  life,  which  keeps  him  inevitably  from 
^the  healthiness^of  true  sanity.  It  is,  perhaps,  just  be- 
cause Jim  realises  his  own  character  so  clearly  that 
his  conflict  with  himself  assumes  these  almost  epic 
proportions — and  in  that  light  he  becomes  a  much 
more  real  individual.  But  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  Conrad  was  developing  one  of  his  own  theories 
in  Jim's  case — the  theory  that  (as  the  French  Lieu- 
tenant says  on  p.  157)  "  when  the  honour  is  gone — 
\ah  gaf" — meaning,  of  course,  that  when  honour  is 
[gone  life  is  no  longer  worth  living.  I  call  that  a^tjieory  ^ 
of  Conrad's  because  he  holds  itjLn.an  especially  French 
sense — a  sense  absolute,  drastic,  exalted.  It  is  a 
thing  one  constajanjTnHiceT^througFout  his  books, 
and,  as  much  as  anything  else  does,  it  shows  the  foreign 
blood  in  Conrad.  I  feel  all  through  Lord  Jim  that 
though  Conrad  regards  Jim  with  pity^.  yet  he  regards 
him  withaut-..hoper— But  ^our  comfortable  English 
minds  would  always  hold  (Siit  hope,  or,  in  their  more 
modern  manifestations,  would  probably  deny  that 
dishonour,  itself,  was  anything  more  than  an  anti- 
quated shibboleth. 

And  now,  while  I  am  discussing  Jim,  it  is  a  good 
opportunity  to  discuss  Jim's  friend,  Marlow.  Marlow 
appears  not  only  in  Lord  Jim,  but  also  in  '*  Youth," 
in  "  Heart  of  ^Darkness,"  and  in  Chance.  He' is,  as 
I   have   explained   in   another   chaprefr^the   sort   of 


CONRAD'S  MEN  125 


familiar  ghost  of  Conrad.  But  though  he  echoes 
Conrad  in  many  respects,  in  others  he  is  totally 
different.  For  he  is  not  only  a  philosopher  as  is 
Conrad  (and  a  philosopher  with  mucKlhe  same  philo- 
sophy},_.buf  he'iralso  ajnofatist^  in  a"sense In  which 
Conrad,  decMedlyJs^^ 

is  one  of  the  few  ..bores  in  Conrad.  I  think  it  quite 
likely 'that  if  is  because  we  see"7rm  almost  entirely 
through  liis  eyes  that  Jim  does  not  greatly  move  us-^ 
the  irritation  of  Mario w's  endless  comments  spoiling  .  ^ 
our  finer  appreciation  of  the  other's  character.  In  |  ^ 
Lord  Jnn  Marlow  makes  his  worst  and  longest  appeai^\^ 
'ance_,j5yhereas  in  "  Youth  "  he  makes~Fy  farTiis  best. 
For  in  "  Youth  "  he  speaks  with  a  lyrical  fervour 
w^hich  is  marvellously  beautiful.  In  "  Heart„_pf 
Darkness,"  too,  he  is  impressive  though  long-winded, 
and  in  Chance  he  plays  but  a  subsidiary  "part.  On 
the  whole,  the  creatio.a-i?i-Marlaw-..wauld  seem  a 
mistake,  though  I  a'dmit  his  use.  His  is  the  wisdom 
of  experience,  a  wisdom  void  of  illusions  but  cherishing 
still  the  might  and  glory  of  their  charm.  For  at  heart 
Marlow,  with  all  his  cynicism jand. sober  melancholy, 
is  a  true  sentiment alist.  ^->-^^ 

Of  other  white  men  living  in  out-of-the-way 
Corners  of  Africa  or  the  East  Indies,  Conrad  has 
drawn  many  portraits.  There  are  Kayerts  and 
Carlier,  the  two  foolish  and  inexperienced  white  agents 
of  "  An  Outpost  of  Progress,"  the  two  men  who  begin 
with  every  good  resolution  and  who  end  with  every 
evil  passion,  the  two  men  who  are  victims  to  the  spirit 
of  the  wilderness.  And  there  are  all  the  white  men 
of  "  Heart  of  Darkness  "—the  manager  with  his 
stony  face  and  his  more  stony  heart,  the  "  pilgrims  " 
with  their  greed,  their  shameless  lust  for  ivory,  their 
lost   souls,   and,   most   important   of   all,   the   extra- 


ne  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

ordinary  Kurtz — a  man  of  intellect,  of  eloquence, 
of  imagination,  and  a  man  who  has  been  utterly  en- 
slaved by  the  mad  darkness  of  a  god-forsaken  land. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  there  is  an  abominable  depth 
of  degradation  about  Kurtz,  that  there  is  something 
unspeakable  about  his  surrender  to  base  instincts  and 
depraved  delights,  but  somehow  I  can  stand  him  better 
than  I  can  stand  his  envious  and  criminal  associates. 
He,  at  any  rate,  is  not  there  solely  for  ivory. 

And  there  is  Falk  ("  Falk  "),  a  strange  figure,  a  man 
repulsive  and  pathetic,  a  man  throbbing  with  life  and 
unable  to  express  himself,  a  man  solitary,  self-centred, 
and  romantic  in  spite  of  himself.  To  understand  Falk 
we  must  realise  that  he  stands  for  the  male.  That  is 
his  whole  meaning,  in  his  love  and  in  his  desire  for 
life — and  that  is  his  attraction  for  the  girl.  And 
there  is  Stein  in  Lord  Jim,  whose  distinction  and  wise 
tolerance  strike  one  at  first  glance,  and  whose  picture 
is  perhaps  the  finest  in  the  whole  novel.  Stein  is, 
indeed,  one  of  Conrad's  most  remarkable  figures — a 
man  of  sensitiveness,  of  disCfiinnLSnt,  and  of  genuine 
ability^  One  can  almost  see  him  in  his  shaded  study, 
surrounded  by  his  books  and  his  splendid  entomo- 
logical collections,  or  walking  slowly  with  a  candle 
through  the  shadowy  gloom  of  his  empty  reception 
chambers,  or  sitting  in  the  deep  solitude  of  his  great 
garden.  He^is  a  living  figure,  a  figure  of  romantic 
adventure  anr!  <^f  ^hsorhprl  <=;n1itl]<i<i^j  ^  fignrp  from  the 
dim,  savage  past  of  a  vanished  epoch. 

And  there  is  Captain  Lingard  of  An  Outcast  of  the 
Islands,  a  bluff,  domineering,  tender-hearted  old 
seaman,  overwhelming  in  his  affection  and  terrible 
in  his  revenge.  His  end  is  clouded  in  sadness  and 
uncertainty.  He  melts  away,  a  ruined  and  broken 
old  man,  into  the  haze  of  Europe,  and  is  heard  of  no 


CONRAD^S  MEN  127 


more.  And  there  is  Willems  in  the  same  book,  the 
conceited  and  fraudulent  clerk,  whom  Captain  Lingard 
has  "  made  "  and  whom  he  rescues  in  the  hour  of  his 
exposure.  Willems  belongs  to  the  large  class  of 
utterly  unmoral  people  whose  only  creed  is  their 
personal  advantage.  That  he  should  behave  treacher- 
ously to  Captain  Lingard  is  to  be  expected  but  that 
he  should  be  capable  of  really  passionate  love  is  harder 
to  credit.  His  love  for  Aissa  is  like  the  craving  of 
a  madman  and  into  it  he  pours  all  the  pent  up  forces 
of  his  selfish  energy.  The  study  of  Willems  is  success- 
ful because  Conrad  makes  us  see  exactly  the  type  of 
man  he  is,  but  it  is,  I  think,  exaggerated  in  parts 
and  it  is  too  drawn  out.  But  in  An  Oiitcast  of  the 
Islands  and  Almayers  Folly  the  most  important  man 
to  appear  in  both  is  Almayer,  himself — the  fountain 
of  Conrad's  inspiration  (see  Some  Reminiscences, 
p.  156).  He  is  the  white  trader  of  Sambir,  the  slave 
of  hope,  the  weary,  weak,  and  sullen  protege  of  Captain 
Lingard.  (Curious  it  is  to  note  the  likeness,  in  their 
great  dissimilarity  (the  one  selfish,  the  other  selfless), 
'twixt  Almayer  and  the  Markelov  of  Turgenev's 
On  the  Eve — drenched  as  they  both  are  in  futile  irrita- 
bility). Almayer  is  the  sort  of  man  whose  spirit, 
always  peevish,  has  been  fatally  ruined  by  the  mono- 
tony and  dreariness  of  a  tropical  life.  His  hate  and 
his  love  alike  are  tinged  with  unreal  sentiment  and 
his  whole  outlook  is  vitiated  by  his  sense  of  wrongs 
and  by  his  dreams  of  felicity.  He  is  a  fit  subject  for 
an  idee  fixe,  a  man  without  any  grip  on  reality,  a  man 
incapable  of  a  magnanimous  view.  Neither  Almayer 
nor  Willems  are  precisely  what  we  mean  by  bad  men 
but  they  are,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  worthless. 
Almayer  stagnates  and  Willems  pushes,  but  the  world 
cold-shoulders  them  equally. 


4- 


128      '    ■    Joseph  conrad 

% 

And  there  is  Captain  Mac  Whirr  of  the  Nan  Shan 
("  Typhoon"),  of  whom  I  have  had  cause  to  speak 
in  other  chapters.  It  is  this  densely  stupid  man,  with 
no  quaUfications  to  attract  us  but  his  dogged  courage 
and  his  sense  of  duty,  that  Conrad  has  chosen  to 
exempUfy  most  strikingly  his  admiration  for  fidelity 
and  endurance.  The  reason  for  that  is  obvious — • 
the  greater  the  contrast,  the  stronger  the  point.  But 
I  do  wish  to  insist  again  that  Captain  MacWhirr  is, 
above  all  things,  a  real  man — if  it  were  not  so  the 
story  would  lose  its  power.  His  figure  rises  before 
us  as  vividly  as  any  figure  in  these  books,  the  figure 
of  an  entirely  proper  and  utterly  unimaginative  man, 
the  sort  of  man  whose  mind  is  peifectly  literal  and  who 
is  enclosed  in  a  wooden  box  of  convention. 

And  there  is  Jacobus  ("  A  Smile  of  Fortune  "), 
that  curious  ships'-dealer  of  Mauritius,  a  figure  sinister 
and  pitiable,  a  man  of  overpowering  greed  and  of  odd, 
compassionate  impulses,  a  man  who  lives  in  a  world 
of  muffled  innuendo  and  of  clouded  emotions.  Cer- 
tainly Jacobus  is  a  fascinating  study.  But  he  rouses 
an  interest  that  is  doomed  to  perpetual  disappointment, 
because  it  really  is  impossible  to  grasp  his  motives. 
The  only  thing  that  can  be  definitely  stated  is  that 
he  is  a  more  reputable  figure  than  his  respected 
brother. 

And  then  finally  (to  close  this  haphazard  list)  there 
are  Jasper  Allen  and  the  Dutch  Lieutenant  Heemskirk 
in  "  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands."  Jasper  is  one  of 
Conrad's  fine  figures  of  a  man — clean-cut  throughout, 
a  capital  and  enthusiastic  seaman,  a  man  whose  simple 
and  straightforward  nature  has  been  fired  with  the 
passionate  romance  of  a  great  love.  His  devotion 
to  Freya  is  as  much  part  of  his  existence  as  the  very 
beat  of  his  heart,  and  the  tragic  gloom  of  this  story 


CONRAD'S  MEN  129 


is  darkened  by  the  dreadful  collapse  of  all  his  active 
faculties  in  the  shock  of  irretrievable  disaster.  Unless 
we  realise  clearly  that  beneath  that  blow  his  sanity 
has  actually  given  way  we  cannot  but  rebel  against 
the  last  stages  of  his  psychology.  But,  indeed,  the 
truth  is  that  when  Heemskirk  managed  to  run  the 
Bonito  on  a  reef,  something  vital  snapped  within  the 
taut  and  eager  brain  of  Jasper  Allen.  And  as  for 
Heemskirk  himself  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  is  the 
vilest  man  in  all  Conrad — a  blackguard  as  heartless  as 
lago.  The  very  thought  of  him  makes  the  gorge  rise 
with  an  intolerable  loathing.  From  jealousy  and  out- 
raged dignity  he  wrecked  the  lives  of  two  happy  lovers 
with  no  more  compunction  than  he  would  have  felt  in 
squashing  a  fly — indeed,  with  fiendish  and  oily  pleasure. 
The  soul  of  Heemskirk  is  one  of  unmitigated  darkness. 
And  now  let  me  speak  of  some  of  the  characters  in 
Nostromo — the  greatest  romance  of  the  Western  world 
ever  written.  I  have  already  mentioned  old  Viola, 
the  Garibaldino,  but  he  is  only  one  out  of  a  crowd  of 
enthralling  people.  For  not  only  in  its  general 
atmosphere  but  in  the  very  characters  that  pass 
through  its  pages,  Nostromo  is  the  most  imaginative 
and  original  of  all  Conrad's  books.  There  is,  for 
instance,  Charles  Gould,  the  husband  of  Dona  Emilia 
and  the  owner  of  the  San  Tome  concession.  Out- 
wardly taciturn,  inwardly  consumed  by  a  passionate 
hatred  of  inefficiency,  this  silent  man,  so  English 
amidst  the  excitable  Costaguanos  and  yet  so  subtly 
a  Costaguano  himself,  pursues  his  aim  with  the  rigid 
11  inevitability  of  a  fanatic.  And,  indeed,  he  is  a  fanatic, 
I  a  man  of  one  idea,  a  man  intrepid,  dangerous,  incapable 
I  of  turning  back.  His  treatment  of  his  wife  is,  of  course, 
ji  an  integral  part  of  his  whole  character— she  is  the 
slow  victim  of  his  consuming  idea. 


130  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


And  then  there  is  Nostromo  (Gian'  Battista,  Captain 
Fidanza),  a  man  with  a  genius  for  initiative  and^ 
command,  a  man  craving  for  the  narrow  romance  of 
perpetual  success  and  perpetual  recognition,  a  man 
of  strength  and  courage  but  of  morbid  sensibility,, 
always  brooding  over  imaginary  slights,^~Tnsir^ith 
a  grievance  which  he  could  hardly  have  expressed 
in  words  but  which  leads  him  into  deception  audi 
dishonour,  a  man  of  the  people  truly,  but  a  man 
with  an  aristocratic  aloofness  of  heart.  I  used  to 
think  that  Nostromo  was  not  a  success  but  I  now 
think  quite  otherwise.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  one  mam 
of  real  genius  in  all  Conrad's  books.  For  he  has  the  | 
type  of  personality  that  amounts  to  genius.  And, 
indeed,  his  grasp  of  a  situation  and  his  capacity  for 
carrying  out  a  scheme  have  genius  in  them.  His 
whole  actions  during  the  revolution  show  an  extra- 
ordinarily quick  and  fertile  brain.  Not  only  did 
he  deal  efficiently  with  the  silver  but  it  was  really 
at  his  suggestion  that  Dr  Monygham  carried  out  the 
brilliant  idea  of  making  Sotillo  drag  for  it  in  the  bay — 
wasting  precious  time  in  the  one  manner  that  could 
have  appeared  genuine  to  that  rapacious  and  gloomy 
ruffian.  And  then,  again,  his  ride  across  country 
to  warn  Barrios  was  a  feat  of  genuis.  But  the  gnaw- 
ing worm  of  discontent  follows  hard  upon  these 
immense  material  successes.  Unable  to  extract  the 
last  ounce  of  recognition — the  delicate  flattery  of 
unqualified  fame — he  feels  all  the  bitterness  of  failure. 
He  has  got  nothing  out  of  it,  nothing  at  all,  neither 
glory  nor  money !  Such  thoughts  open  the  path 
to  his  decline  and  fall.  Brooding  upon  the  injustice 
of  society,  upon  their  capacity  to  take  all  his  abilities, 
his  achievements,  and  his  integrity  as  a  matter  of 
course,  he  comes  to  the  slow  conclusion  that  he  will 


CONRAD'S  MEN  131 


revenge  himself  by  never  revealing  the  fact  that  the 
silver  is  not  really  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  but  hidden 
deep  within  the  shelving  sand  of  the  Great  Isabel — 
never  revealing  the  fact  but  using  his  own  knowledge 
to  grow  rich  by  stealth.  Like  Charles  Gould,  he,  too, 
is  the  victim  of  an  idee  fixe.  But  our  last  glimpses  of 
Nostromo  are  lighted  for  us  by  another  flash  of  his 
former  genius — the  procuring  of  old  Viola  and  his 
two  daughters  as  keepers  of  the  new  lighthouse  upon 
the  Great  Isabel.  Betrothed  to  one  daughter  and 
secretly  in  love  with  the  other,  he  can  come  there 
in  future  without  comment — come  to  that  lonely 
island  on  the  border  of  the  Placid  Gulf,  and  abstract, 
one  by  one,  the  precious  and  haunting  ingots  of  silver. 
Let  me  finish  these  words  about  Nostromo  by  giving 
this  striking  portrait  of  him  : — 

Nostromo  woke  up  from  a  fourteen  hours'  sleep^  and  arose 
full  length  from  his  lair  in  the  long  grass.  He  stood  knee 
deep  amongst  the  whispering  undulations  of  the  green  blades 
with  the  lost  air  of  a  man  just  born  into  the  world.  Hand- 
some, robust,  and  supple,  he  threw  back  his  head,  flung  his 
arms  open,  and  stretched  himself  with  a  slow  twist  of  the 
waist  and  a  leisurely  growling  yawn  of  white  teeth,  as  natural 
and  free  from  evil  in  the  moment  of  waking  as  a  magnificent 
and  unconscious  wild  beast.  Then,  in  the  suddenly  steadied 
glance  fixed  upon  nothing  from  under  a  forced  frown,  appeared 
the  man.    {Nostromo,  p.  347.) 

And  another  very  curious  character  is  that  of  Dr 
Monygham.  He  is  one  of  these  strange  men  who  have 
drifted  through  every  form  of  bitter  degradation 
into  a  hopeless  view  of  life,  relieved  only  from  despair 
by  cynical  hatred  of  his  fellow-men.  His  atrocious 
sufferings  under  Guzman  Bento,  wherein  in  a  moment 
of  tortured  weakness  he  has  revealed  the  secrets 
which  mean  disaster  and  death  to  his  friends,  have 


132  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

filled  his  heart  with  an  utter  abasement  of  misery. 
He  is  like  a  lost  soul  wandering  in  the  torments  of 
hell.  The  biting  sarcasm  of  his  words  conceals  an 
agony  of  useless  repentance.  For  Dr  Monygham 
is  a  man  whose  nobihty  of  spirit  has  suffered  an  outrage 
from  which  it  cannot  recover  of  its  own  accord.  IJe 
is  a  man  who  has  lost  all  belief  in  himself.  There  is 
nothing  more  touching  in  Conrad  than  the  way  in 
which  Mrs  Gould  realises  this  in  the  exquisite  tender- 
ness of  her  compassion,  and  the  way  in  which  Dr 
Monygham  repays  her  by  his  pure  devotion.  To 
this  outcast  she  has  brought  back  the  very  breath  of 
Ufe. 

Decoud,  the  Parisian  mocker,  the  airy  lover  of 
Antonio  Avellanos,  the  flaneur  of  the  Boulevards, 
is  another  interesting  study.  It  is  not  quite  apparent, 
I  think,  what  final  impression  of  him  Conrad  means  us 
to  retain,  but  I  should  say  it  was  the  impression  of  a 
sincere  patriot,  who,  like  so  many  patriots,  only  half 
believes  that  there  is  anything  in  it  all.  He  is  the 
type  of  universal  scoffer  whose  feelings  are  stronger 
than  the  reason  which  opposes  them.  His  death 
on  the  Great  Isabel  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
passages  in  Nostromo.  The  psychology  it  reveals 
is  marvellously  subtle.  The  demoralising,  mysterious 
effect  of  silence  and  insomnia  has  never  before  been 
presented  with  such  intolerable  power. 

And  then  there  is  Captain  Mitchell — the  pompous, 
ineffectual,  and  lovable  old  port  Captain  of  the  O.S.N, 
at  Sulaco.  His  is  a  chaiacter  of  guileless  and  upright 
simplicity — a  character  of  the  most  absorbed  self- 
importance  and  the  most  unconditional  belief  in 
authority.  He  is  serenely  ignorant  of  the  real  world, 
living,  as  he  does,  in  a  realm  of  pleasant  illusions, 
but  in  his  consequential  fussiness  and  in  his  garrulous 


CONRAD'S  MEN  133 

good- nature  he  is  a  genuine  character.  Moreover,  he 
has  the  qualities  of  personal  courage  and  of  faithfulness 
to  a  marked  degree. 

And  there  is  Don  Jose  Avellanos — the  stately  and 
aristocratic  patriot  of  the  old  regime,  a  figure  tragic 
in  his  unswerving  idealism  amidst  the  memories  of 
suffering  and  the  horrors  of  present  disaster.  There 
is  something  at  once  splendid  and  melancholy  in  the 
picture  of  this  disinterested  old  man,  struggling  to 
keep  alive  his  belief  in  the  ultimate  regeneration  of 
his  country  through  the  blind  chaos  that  seems  to 
have  swamped  his  life's  work  at  the  very  hour  of  its 
triumph. 

And  one  of  the  most  singular  and  vivid  people  in 
this  book  is  Sptillo,  the  Colonel  of  the  Esmeralda 
regiment,  and  a  leader  of  the  Montero  revolution. 
In  him  is  epitomised  that  spirit  of  cowardice,  greed, 
and  ruthless  cruelty  underlying  a  certain  type  of  semi- 
educated  South  American.  He  has  the  soul  of  all  the 
furies,  pent  up  for  most  of  his  career  beneath  the 
languishing  and  irresistible  exterior  of  a  notorious  lady- 
killer  but  let  loose  at  last  in  an  appalling  avalanche  of 
vicious  cupidity  and  savage  anger.  The  picture  in 
which  Conrad  describes  the  shocking  blackness  of  his 
heart  is  so  striking  that  I  will  give  it  here  though  it  is 
part  of  a  longer  passage  I  have  quoted  elsewhere  : — 

Every  time  he  went  in  and  came  out  with  a  slam  of  the 
door,  the  sentry  on  the  landing  presented  arms,  and  got  in 
return  a  black,  venomous,  unsteady  glance,  which,  in  reality, 
saw  nothing  at  all,  being  merely  the  reflection  of  the  soul 
■within — a  soul  of  gloomy  hatred,  irresolution,  avarice,  and 
fury.     {Nosiromo,  p.  381.) 

Another  monster  is  General  Montero,  brother    of 
the  great  "  deliverer,"  and,  like  him,  devoid  of  any- 
!      thing  but  a  brutal  lust  for  power  and  an  inordinate 


134 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


/ 


vanity.  Even  while  he  is  still  supposed  to  belong 
to  the  Ribiera  faction  he  shows  all  the  storm 
signals  of  untrustworthiness  and  sullen  contempt. 
This  is  how  he  appeared  at  the  banquet  to  celebrate 
the  building  of  the  railway  : — 

On  one  side,  General  Montero,  his  bald  head  covered  now 
by  a  plumed  cocked  hat,  remained  motionless  on  a  skylight 
seat,  a  pair  of  big  gauntleted  hands  folded  on  the  hilt  of  the 
sabre  standing  upright  between  his  legs.  The  white  plume, 
the  coppery  tint  of  his  broad  face,  the  blue-black  of  the 
moustaches  under  the  curved  beak,  the  mass  of  gold  on 
sleeves  and  breast,  the  high  shining  boots  with  enormous 
spurs,  the  working  nostrils,  the  imbecile  and  domineering 
stare  of  the  glorious  victor  of  Rio  Seco  had  in  them  some- 
thing ominous  and  incredible  ;  the  exaggeration  of  the  cruel 
caricature,  the  fatuity  of  solemn  masquerading,  the  atrocious 
grotesqueness  of  some  military  idol  of  Aztec  conception  and 
P^uropean  bedecking,  awaiting  the  homage  of  worshippers. 
(Nosiromo,  p.  103.) 

There  are  several  other  men  in  No  stroma  of  whom 
I  should  like  to  speak  had  I  the  space — Hirsch,  for 
instance,  (whose  terror  always  strikes  me  as  rather 
too  melodramic),  and  Ribiera,  the  President-Dictator, 
a  hero  in  an  infirm  body,  and  Barrios,  the  rough 
diamond,  and  Don  Pepe,  the  old  brave,  and  Father 
Corbelan  (too  melodramatic,  also,  I  think),  and  the 
infamous  Guzman  Bento — who  appears  only  as  a 
memory  and  who  is  a  sort  of  Dr  Francia,  without 
Francia's  charm  of  manner.  Yet  I  must  pass  them  by 
with  only  a  mention  of  their  names. 

But  I  will  turn  now  to  another  book  of  Conrad's 
that  contains  some  exceptionally  interesting  people — 
The  Secret  Agent.  And  in  regard  to  this  book,  it  is 
necessary  to  note,  as  I  have  pointed  out  in  my  chapter 
on  Conrad's  irony,  that  the  whole  work  is  conceived 
in  a  spirit  of  irony.     It  does  not  affect  the  reality  of 


CONRAD'S  MEN  135 


the  figures,  nor  does  it  affect  the  feeUngs,  whether  of 
disHke  or  of  pity,  with  which  we  regard  them,  but  \ 
it  does  affecl.jDJir^perspecti^^^       This  is  a  point  to  be 
remembeied. 

The  principal  character  in  The  Secret  Agent  (and 
one  of  the  most  perfect  characters  in  Conrad)  is  a 
woman,  Winnie  Verloc,  and  as  such  she  does  not  enter 
into  present  consideration,  but  her  brother  Stevie, 
and  her  husband,  Mr  Verloc,  are,  next  to  her,  of  chief 
interest.  Stevie  is  a  young  man,  slightly  "  wanting  " 
mentally,  but  overflowing  with  compassion  for  suffer- 
ing and  full  of  a  gentle  pride  in  the  integrity  of  all 
"  good  "  people — a  simple,  unsophisticated  nature, 
but  capable  of  paroxysms  of  rage  against  cruelty  or 
oppression  and  of  a  curiously  stubborn  resistance  to 
the  wiles  of  remonstrance  or  inquisitiveness.  A  very 
marked  sympathy  and  intuition  have  been  lavished 
on  Stevie's  portrait — and  lavished,  I  should  suspect, 
not  alone  for  his  sake  but  for  the  sake  of  making  us 
comprehend  the  relationship  of  Stevie  and  his  sister. 
For  her  devotion  to  him  is  that  of  a  boundless  maternal 
pity  for  the  innocent  helplessness  of  a  child,  and  in 
that  emotion  we  see  him  as  he  really  is — the  pathetic 
fragment  of  a  beautiful  and  trusting  nature.  For 
Stevie's  mind  is  only  warped  in  its  lack  of  growth, 
it  is  not  warped  at  all  in  any  quality  of  true  humanity. 
Its  secretiveness  and  its  openness  alike  represent  the 
temperament  of  a  sensitive  boy. 

Verloc,  on  the  other  hand,  though  not  a  vicious  marf,\ 
is  a  man  almost  entirely  lacking  in  morality.  Hisj 
theory  of  life  is  contained  in  the  word  comfort — com-  ', 
fort  of  mind  and  body.  And  the  tragedy  of  his  life 
is  the  impossibility  of  attaining  this  tantalising  goal 
for  any  length  of  time.  He  is  one  of  these  sublimely 
slothful  men  who  would  be  delighted  just  to  live  and 


136  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


let  live — provided  he  were  well  paid  for  it.  Though 
no  men  could  be  more  different  than  Nostromo  and 
Verloc,  yet  they  resemble  one  another  in  the  single 
point  that  they  both  have  a  dumb  grievance  against 
society — for  whom  they  have  done  so  much  and  from 
whom  they  have  received  so  little.  (And,  talking 
of  comparisons,  it  is  rather  odd  to  contrast  Jacobus 
of  "  A  Smile  of  Fortune  "  with  Verloc.  They  have 
a  sort  of  external  resemblance  in  their  mumbling  and 
secretive  natures,  though  they  are  not,  really,  at  all 
alike.)  In  the  thick  darkness  of  his  muddled  intelli- 
gence Verloc  is  for  ever  (since  his  meeting  with  the 
deadly  Mr  Vladimir)  brooding  upon  his  wrongs.  That 
is  why,  throughout  the  book,  we  watch  him  through  a 
kind  of  veil — the  veil  of  his  own  bewildered  uneasiness. 
But  physically  he  is  quite  plain  to  us — an  obese  man, 
dirty,  unkempt,  solemnly  unobservant,  fond  of  his 
home,  much  moved  at  the  thought  of  his  own  worth. 
Conrad  has  given  an  inimitable  description  of  him  : — 

His  eyes  were  naturally  heavy  ;  he  had  an  air  of  having 
wallowed^  fully  dressed,  all  day  on  an  unmade  bed.  {The 
Secret  Agent,  p.  3.) 

[What  a  master  Conrad  is  of  these  thumb-nail 
pictures  !  Think  of  his  description  of  the  small, 
skulking  second  mate  of  the  "  Nan  Shan  "  : — 

The  second  mate  was  lying  low,  like  a  malignant  little 
animal  under  a  hedge.     {Typhoon,  "  Typhoon/'  p.  65.) 

or  of  what  he  says  of  Dr  Monygham  : — 

.  .  .  whose  short_,  hopeless  laugh  expressed  somehow  an 
immense  mistrust  of  mankind.     {Nostromo,  p.  36.) 

or,  again,  of  what  he  says  of  Councillor  MikuHn  : — 
The  bearded  bureaucrat  sat  at  his  post,  mysteriously  self- 


CONRAD'S  MEN  137 


possessed  like  an  idol  with  dim,  unreadable  eyes.    (Under 
Western  Eyes,  p.  93.)] 

The  anarchists  of  The  Secret  Agent,  such  men  as 
MichaeHs,  Ossipon,  Carl  Yundt,  and  the  Professor, 
make  a  curious  group,  posed  as  they  are  in  the  ironic 
gravity  of  Conrad's  setting.  (One  should  contrast 
them,  by  the  way,  to  Inspector  Heat,  the  absolute 
type  of  the  corrupt,  competent,  non-commissioned 
mind — a  mind,  in  this  instance,  with  something  in 
it  of  Hugo's  Javert  and  something  of  the  con- 
temptuous licence  and  sheer  pride  of  the  subordinate.) 
Michaelis  is  the  most  pleasant  of  them — a  man  whose 
vitality  has  all  oozed  away  into  fat,  an  amiable 
sentimentalist  of  the  universal  brotherhood  order. 
Ossipon  is  simply  a  fraud,  and  Karl  Yundt  a  "  horrid 
old  man,"  but  the  Professor  is  really  formidable — a 
man  of  one  idea  indeed,  a  fanatic  untouched  by 
compassion  or  doubt,  an  extremist  who  believes  in 
destruction  simply  for  itself.  The  little  picture  of 
him,  which  makes  the  last  pararaph  of  The  Secret 
Agent,  sums  up  the  whole  philosophy  of  his  Hfe  ^\^th 
striking  effect : — 

And  the  incorruptible  Professor  walked  too,  averting  his 
eyes  from  the  odious  multitude  of  mankind.  He  had  no 
future.  He  disdained  it.  He  was  a  force.  His  thoughts 
caressed  the  images  of  ruin  and  destruction.  He  walked 
frail,  insignificant,  shabby,  miserable — and  terrible  in  the 
simplicity  of  his  idea  calling  madness  and  despair  to  the 
regeneration  of  the  world.  Nobody  looked  at  him.  He 
passed  on  unsuspected  and  deadly,  like  a  pest  in  the  street 
full  of  men.     (The  Secret  Agent,  pp.  441-2.) 

And  we  may  glance  now  at  the  men  in  that  other 
novel  about  rebels — Under  Western  Eyes.  The  book 
centres  round  the  figure  of  Razumov,  and  it  is  ot  him 
we  must  speak  first  of  all.     This,  really,  is  a  study  of 


138  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

despair,  for  to  understand  Razumov  one  must  realise 
the  angry  futility  in  his  heart  against  all  mankind 
and  his  constant  savage  efforts  to  justify  his  own 
actions  to  himself  by  considering  the  ruin  that  others 
have  brought  into  his  blameless  life.  Razumov  is 
an  egoist — his  one  aim  is  to  make  a  success  of  his 
career ;  and  he  is  also  fanatically  averse  to  the 
fanaticism  of  extremists.  His  silence,  which  won  foi 
him  the  unenviable  esteem  of  the  idealist  Haldin, 
is  the  cloak  under  which  he  hides  his  disdain  and  his 
ambition.  But  Razumov  (like  the  Raskolnikof  of 
Crime  a?id  Punishment)  is  more  within  the  grip  of 
his  moral  conscience  than  he  knows  himself,  and 
therefore,  though  he  can  behave  basely  in  the  hour 
of  panic  (as  he  does  in  his  betrayal  of  Haldin),  yet 
he  is  bound  to  suffer  for  it  a  hundredfold  later  on. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  angry  gnawing  of  his  con- 
science never  leaves  him  by  night  or  day — he  tries 
to  stifle  it  by  ceaseless  explanations,  by  cynical  con- 
tempt, by  a  view  of  society  foreign  to  his  Russian 
soul,  but  he  cannot.  There  is  no  doubt  that  it  would 
shortly  have  driven  him  mad — especially  under  the 
fearful  strain  of  Haldin' s  sister's  exalted  regard  for  her 
brother's  last  protector  and  friend — had  he  not  burst 
out  of  his  nightmare  of  silence  into  the  relief  and 
ignominy  of  confession.  For  Razumov  has  the  endless 
introspection  of  the  Slav.  It  is  typical  of  him  that  he 
does  not  confess  till  all  chances  of  his  being  unmasked 
are  over,  for  it  is  typical  of  a  certain  order  of  Russians 
to  lie  while  people  suspect  them  but  to  tell  the  truth 
when  they  are  no  longer  doubted.  The  power  of  this 
portrait  rests  in  the  fact  that  Razumov  is,  at  once, 
convincing  as  an  individual  and  convincing  as  a 
Russian. 

The  other  men  in   Under  Western  Eyes  need  not 


CONRAD'S  MEN  139 


detain  us  long.  The  most  interesting  of  them  are, 
perhaps,  Councillor  Mikulin  of  the  secret  police, 
the  revolutionary  Haldin,  and  Peter  Ivanovitch,  the 
escaped  convict  and  great  pioneer  of  feminism. 
Mikulin  is  exciting  because  he  represents  the  inscrut- 
able attitude  of  Russian  officialdom,  and  is,  himself, 
the  embodiment  of  cunning  reserve  and  deep  perspi- 
cuity. In  reading  of  his  interview  with  Razumov 
we  are  forcibly  reminded  of  Raskolnikof's  interviews 
with  Porphirius,  the  examining  magistrate,  in  Crime 
and  Punishment.  We  feel  in  both  cases  some- 
thing uneasy  and  thrilling,  something  that  seems 
to  lie  just  beneath  the  smooth  surface  of  the  spoken 
words. 

As  for  Haldin,  his  is  the  spirit  of  noble,  disinterested, 
and  perhaps  fanatical  idealism.  I  say  "  perhaps  " 
because,  though  he  murders  a  high  official,  the  few 
glimpses  we  have  of  him  give  suggestion  of  a  sweet 
and  reasonable  nature  driven  to  desperation  by  the 
suffering  around  him.  Haldin  is  the  true  type  of 
martyr — gentle,  faithful,  uncomplaining.  With  his 
hands  still  red  he  first  steps  before  us.  But  his  simple 
and  winning  nature  disarms  with  a  word  our  horror 
at  a  useless  and  dreadful  deed. 

As  for  Peter  Ivanovitch,  he  is  a  veritable  whited 
sepulchre — a  man  with  a  vast  flow  of  words  and  an 
extreme  smallness  of  heart — a  booming  and  hollow 
drum.  Nowhere  does  the  underlying  irony  of  this 
book  appear  more  clearlj^  than  in  the  suggestion  of 
Peter  Ivanovitch's  influence  over  the  sincerest  of  the 
revolutionaries.  For  the  curse  of  advanced  causes 
is  the  power  of  words.  The  prestige  of  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch is,  apart  from  his  Siberian  escape,  built  up 
upon  a  mountain  of  sound.  In  reahty  he  is  a  mean, 
a  cruel,  and  a  grossly  conceited  man. 


140  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

I  have  not  yet  mentioned  some  of  the  most  finished 
portraits  in  Conrad's  books — such  portraits  as  those 
of  D'Hubert  and  Feraud  in  "  The  Duel,"  II  Conde 
in  "II  Conde/'  Dominic  and  Cesar  (both  admittedly 
real)  in  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,  Conrad's  own  uncle 
in  Some  Reminiscences,  Captain  Hagberd  and  his 
son  Harry  in  "  To-morrow,"  O'Brien,  Manuel  del 
Popolo  and  Tomas  Castro  in  Romance,  the  Due  de 
Mersch  in  The  Inheritors. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  Lieutenant  (after- 
wards General)  D'Hubert  better  than  by  saying  that 
he  is  a  kind  of  French  Captain  Anthony  of  the 
Napoleonic  wars.  He  has^the  sane,  sensitive,  and 
compassionate  gallantry  of  the  English  sea  captain 
— a  just  and  delightful  personality.  And  Feraud, 
too,  has  charm — the  charm  of  a  fiery  and  irascible 
Gascon,  whose  true  spiriFTias  T5een'  crppre  by 
rancour  and  misfortune.  The  contrast  between 
these  two  men  gives  us  a  brilliant  picture  of  either. 
They  have  our  affection  because  they  are  really 
presented  sympathetically. 

II  Conde,  too,  is  presented  sympathetically,  though 
perhaps  with  a  touch  of  irony.  He  comes  before  us 
a  rather  faded,  rather  solitary  old  man  who  has  passed 
graciously  through  life  an  eternal  gentleman  and 
an  eternal  dilettante.  We  see  him  at  the  moment 
of  his  deepest  perplexity  and  disturbance,  quite 
unable  to  cope  with  his  difficulty  but  remaining,  as 
ever,  a  gentleman  to  his  finger  tips.  II  Conde  is  the 
portrait  of  a  man  whose  only  aim  in  life  is  to  slip 
peacefully  downhill,  indulging  a  little  his  cultured 
and  mature  tastes,  and  treating  the  world  with  the 
benign  friendliness  of  a  philosopher.  There  is  a 
tragic  touch  in  this  story  but  it  moves  us  only  faintly 
— as  indeed  II  Conde,  himself,  would  wish.     Strong 


CONRAD'S  MEN  ui 


feelings  would  be  out  of  place  in  regard  to  this  refined 
and  undemonstrative  old  aristocrat. 

As  to  Dominic,  Cesar,  and  Conrad's  own  uncle, 
I  will  say  but  little  of  them  as  they  hardly  fall  intci 
my  present  scheme.  They  are  characters  clearly 
and,  in  regard  to  two  of  them,  lovingly  drawn,  and 
they  stand  out  of  the  pages  as  living  people.  Con- 
rad's uncle,  particularly,  must  have  been  a  man  in 
a  thousand — so  warm-hearted,  \vi de-minded,  and 
comprehending. 

Of  Captain  Hagberd  I  have  spoken  elsewhere. 
He  is  a  man  who  creates  in  us  an  emotion  of  true 
pity — though  he  himself,  of  course,  is  radiantly 
happy  with  the  hopeful  certainty  of  an  insane  ob- 
session. But  if  his  illusion  is  tragic  to  us,  his  rare 
and  fleeting  moments  of  doubt  are  still  more  tragic. 
That  is  what  Bessie  Carvil  knew  when  she  set  her- 
self, in  her  pity,  to  pacify  the  old  man  with  a  semblance 
of  belief  and  interest.  In  Captain  Hagberd  Conrad 
has  drawn,  with  great  skill,  the  curious  undercurrent 
of  misgiving  and  shyness  which  lurks  behind  nearly 
every  form  of  delusion. 

Harry  Hagberd,  his  son,  is  a  figure  startling  not 
only  in  the  absolute  contrast  he  presents  to  his  father 
but  in  the  strange  glamour  of  his  own  personality. 
It  is  not  without  significance  that  he  should  appear 
out  of  the  dusk  of  the  night  and  should  melt  into 
it  again  to  the  mysterious  sound  of  the  swell  break- 
ing on  the  sea  wall.  He  reminds  me  somehow  of 
a  very  different  person,  of  Balzac's  Vautrin.  Both 
have  that  fascination  of  a  strange,  gigantic,  and 
symbolic  personality — a  personality  shrouded,  as 
it  were,  in  a  conspiracy  of  silence  and  romance. 
That  both  have  a  certain  melodramatic  touch 
about   them    I    admit— but   then    I    doubt    whether 


142 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


one  could  conceive  of  them  at  all  without  melo- 
drama. 

O'Brien  is  a  revolutionary  Irishman  who  has 
fastened  upon  Cuba  and  has  wormed  his  way  to  the 
top.  It  is  a  portrait  with  some  ciuious,  vivid  touches 
and  some  obvious  and  romantic  extravagances. 

Manuel  del  Popolo  is  a  Cuban  Lugareno  of  the 
lowest  type — with  the  soul  of  a  beast,  a  demagogue, 
and  a  poet.  The  vagaries  of  his  conceit  and  the 
fluctuations  of  his  vvicked  and  impressible  heart  are 
portrayed,  as  it  were,  through  a  golden  flood  of  at- 
mosphere. He  lives  for  us  in  the  setting  of  a  tropical 
and  lazy  existence — and  that  setting  is  the  secret 
of  his  vitality.     But  in  it  he  is  astonishingly  real. 

But  perhaps  Tomas  Castro  is  the  most  triumphant 
creation  of  Romance.  This  stumpy,  saturnine,  and 
dignified  little  man  has  the  very  instinct  of  Spanish 
pride  in  the  reserve  of  his  bearing.  He  is  a  quite 
amazing  figure — with  his  humanity  peeping  out  of 
his  contempt,  and  his  sufferings  wringing  from  him 
the  bitter  confession  of  defeat. 

About  the  Due  de  Mersch  I  ^vill  only  say  that  he 
is  probably  the  most  successful  figure  in  that  not 
very  successful  book,  The  Inheritors.  He  has  a 
certain  reality  and  a  certain  presence,  but  I  should 
doubt  whether  Conrad  had  very  much  to  do  with 
his  creation. 

In  thinking  of  the  men  in  Conrad's  books  I  cannot 

at  the  insight  and  patience  with 

quite  secondary  characters.     Con- 

\  \  rad  sees  hTs  people  too  clearly  for  his  pictures  ever 

to  be   slovenly.     Just   think,    for  instance,    of  men 

like  the  French  naval  lieutenant  in  Lord  Jim,  or  of 

the  cabman  in  The  Secret  Agent.     How  plainly,  how 

dramatically  they  rise  before  us —and  how  incidentally. 


XIX      l.i.J.Xi.lXVXllg      V^X      kXi 

T"  \  help  being_stp«6k 
rk    ]  which  he^deyelops 


CONRAD'S  MEN  143 


Some  of  the  men  in  Conrad's  stories  whom  one  would 
have  to  call  minor  are  complete  through  and  through. 
There  is  Sterne  in  "  The  End  of  the  Tether,"  that 
nasty,  pushing,  plausible  scoundrel,  that  man  with- 
out the  glimmer  of  conscience  but  without  any  ill- 
will  apart  from  what  touches  his  own  fortune  ;  there 
is  the  Captain  of  the  Patna,  hideous  in  his  gross  and  >, 
abounding  vitality  ;    [do  you  remember  this  inimitable 
description  of  him  near  the  beginning  of  the  book  ?  : — 
His  skipper  had  come  up  noiselessly,  in  pyjamas  with  his 
sleeping- jacket  flung  wide  open.    Red  of  face,  only  half 
awake,  the  left  eye  partly  closed,  the  right  staring  stupid 
and  glassy,  he  hung  his  big  head  over  the  chart  and  scratched 
his  ribs  sleepily.     There  was  something  obscene  in  the  sight 
of  his   naked  flesh.     His   bared   breast  glistened  soft  and 
greasy  as  though  he  had  sweated  out  his  fat  in  his  sleep.    He 
pronounced  a  professional  remark  in  a  voice  harsh  and  dead, 
resembling  the  rasping  sound  of  a  wood-file  on  the  edge  of  a 
plank  ;  the  fold  of  his  double  chin  hung  like  a  bag  triced  up 
close  under  the  hinge  of  his  jaw.     (Lord  Jim,  p.  20-1)] ; 

there  is  IBrown  in  Lord  Jim,  the  freebooter  with 
his  malicious  and  evil  passions ;  there  is  Julius 
Laspara  in  Under  Western  Eyes,  a  man  resembling 
some  kind  of  ape  ;  there  is  Makola  in  "An  Outpost 
of  Progress,"  so  respectable,  so  deeply  cynical,  and 
so  terrified  of  devils.  However,  I  will  not  continue 
a  list  which  might  cover  pages.  I  only  wish  to 
demonstrate  the  range  and  quality  of  Conrad's 
psychology.  I  do  not  mean  at  all  that  he  is  equally 
successful  in  all  his  figures,  nor,  in  fact,  that  there 
are  not  positive  failures  amongst  them,  but  I  do  mean 
that  in  each  one  of  his  figures  there  is  a  similar  in- 
tensity of  effort.  Conrad's  whole  idea  of  the  unity 
of  the  novel  would  demand  that,  quite  apart  from 
his  scrupulous  observance  of  reality.  It  is  easy  to 
find  fault  with  Conrad's  figures,  to  pick  holes  in  their 


144  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

psychology  ;  but,  indeed,  as  a  creator  rather  than 
a  mere  observer  Conrad  must  have  laid  himself 
particularly  open  to  such  attack.  A  creator  like 
Conrad  will  always  arouse  undue  antipathy,  and 
perhaps  undue  praise,  whereas  an  observer  like 
Jane  Austen  may  be  universally  accepted. 

In  this  chapter  I  have  tried  solely  to  present  Con- 
rad's men  as  they  present  themselves  to  me.  I 
daresay  it  is  a  biased  viev/  but  I  believe  it  is,  in  the 
main,  a  right  one.  Of  course,  as  I  have  said  before, 
one  cannot  follow  out  the  individual  psychology  in 
the  way  one  should.  One  has  to  give  alone  a  general 
impression — that  general  impression  which  can  only 
be  gained,  I  may  add,  from  a  minute  study. 

And  my  general  impression  is  simply  this — that 
Conrad  is  a  very  great  psychologist.  I  admit  that 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  melodrama  in  his  earlier 
portraits,  and  a  good  deal  of  unnecessary  irony  in 
his  later  portraits,  but  the  essentials  of  psychology 
— the  realism,  the  creation,  the  detail,  the  compre- 
hension— are  always  there.  And  after  all,  such 
melodrama  as  Conrad's  is  but  the  overflow  of  romance, 
and  such  irony  as  Conrad's  is  but  the  wisdom  of 
experience.  Perfect  balance  is  seldom  indicative 
of  the  highest  originality.  Though  Conrad  may 
do  injustice  to  some  types,  yet  to  others  he  has  given 
a  reality  which  can  never  fade.  His  intolerance  of 
certain  people  is  the  meed  of  his  appreciation  of 
others.  We  should  remember  these  words  of  his 
about  Dr  Monygham  : — 

What  he  lacked  was  the  polished  callousness  of  men  of  the 
worid,  the  callousness  from  which  springs  an  easy  tolerance 
for  oneself  and  others  ;  the  tolerance  wide  as  poles  asunder 
from  true  sympathy  and  human  compassion.  {Nostronw, 
p.  441.) 


CHAPTER  VII 

Conrad's  women 

To  say,  as  it  is  sometimes  said,  that  Conrad  does 
'not  understand  women  is  an  observation  revealing 
blindness.  For,  indeed,  his  women  portraits  are 
the  most  finished,  delicate,  and  poignant  of  all  his 
portraits.  But  the  reason  for  its  being  said  arises, 
probably,  from  the  fact  that  Conrad  does  not  make 
1qy§..  the  centre  theme  of  all  his  stories  and  from  the 
fact  that  his  finest  women  are  good  women.  They 
are  of  the  charming  and  merciful  order  of  Desdemona 
rather  than  of  the  ardent  and  fiery  order  of  Cleo- 
patra. Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  that  they  are  in- 
sipid— his  great  women  figures  have  a  marvellous 
and  thrilling  reality — but  what  I  do  mean  is  that 
they  are  not  romantically  inconstant,  even  if  by  that 
one  merely  implies  that  they  are  not  instinctively 
passionate.  For  in.. the  rarest  and  most  exalted 
women  the  emotion  of  love  is  not  only  steadfast 
but  it  is  maternal.  It  is  just  that,  I  think,  which 
gives  such  pathetic  beauty  to  the  portraits  of  Mrs 
Gould  in  Nostromo  and  of  Winnie  Verloc  in  The 
Secret  Agent — portraits  of  which  we  must  always 
speak  first  in  considering  Conrad's  female  characters. 
To  Mrs  Gould  her  husband  has  still  something  in 
him  of  a  little  boy,  to  Winnie  Verloc  her  brother 
is  always  a  little  boy.  In  these  childless  women 
the  might  of  their  compassionate  love  has  wrapped 
the  husband  and  the  brother  in  the  invincible  bonds 

145 


146  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

of  a  maternal  affection.  They  belong  to  the  very 
choicest  natures — the  natures  of  devotion,  sinplei 
of  heart,  and  exquisite  sensitiveness_of„pem 
And  what  ^  so  wonderful-abolft  them  both  is^Tieir 
stillnes^v'^Mrs  Gould  seems  to  spread  the  light  of 
her  benign  understanding  over  all  the  darkness  of 
Nostromo,  whereas  Winnie  Verloc  concentrates  the 
force  of  her  protecting  love  upon  Stevie  alone,  but 
in  both  cases  the  effect  of  stillness  is  the  same.  It 
is  "  the  wisdom  of  the  heart."  One  cannot  exactly 
compare  Mrs~Uould  ~and  Winnie  Verloc,  it  is  true, 
for  they  are  quite  distinct,  and  moreover  Conrad 
has  subtly  suggested  in  their  portraits  the  difference 
between  a  refined  and  educated  lady  and  an  ignorant 
woman  of  the  people,  but  one  sees  in  them,  very 
touchingly,  the  common  basis  of  a  great  love  and  a 
deep  pity.  The  words  in  which  Conrad  describes 
Mrs  Gould  can  be  used  absolutely  of  them  both  : — 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs  Gould's  mind  was 
masculine.  A  woman  with  a  masculine  mind  is  not  a  being 
of  superior  efficiency  ;  she  is  simply  a  phenomenon  of  im- 
perfect differentiation — interestingly  barren  and  without 
importance.  Dona  Emilia's  intelligence  being  feminine  led 
her  to  achieve  the  conquest  of  Sulaco^  simply  by  lighting  the 
way  for  her  unselfishness  and  sympathy.  She  could  con- 
verse charmingly,  but  she  was  not  talkative.  The  wisdom 
of  the  heart  having  no  concern  with  the  erection  or  demoHtion 
of  theories  any  more  than  with  the  defence  of  prejudices,  has 
no  random  words  at  its  command.  The  words  it  pronounces 
have  the  value  of  acts  of  integrity,  tolerance,  and  compassion. 
A  woman's  true  tenderness,  like  the  true  virility  of  man,  is 
expressed  in  action  of  a  conquering  kind.     (Nostromo,  p.  55.) 

It  is  because  they  are  feminine  in  this  still  and 
perfect  sense  that  the  outrage  to  their  love  harrows 
us  so  acutely.  For  it  is  precisely  this  touch  of  femin- 
inity that  gives  the  real  beauty  to  their  faithfulness 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  147 


and  compassion — and  femininity  is  always  maternal 
in  its  instincts  of  unselfishness  and  protection.  But, 
as  I  say,  one  can  only  compare  to  a  slight  extent  Mrs 
Gould  and  Winnie  Verloc ;  and  therefore  I  will 
consider  them  separately. 

And  first  to  speak  of  Mrs  Gould,  "  first  lady  of 
Sulaco,"  v/ife  of  the  celebrated  Charles  Gould,  and 
"  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice."  What  one 
notices  about  her  at  oncgis^the  atmosphere  of  intuitive 
understanding  that  seems  to  flow  from  her  into  the 
very  heart  of  that  strange  society.  She  is  one  of  those 
people  who  by  the  absolute  power  of  tact  and  sjonpathy 
can  touch  all  that  is  best  in  others.  Not  a  hint  of 
the  ironic  is  to  be  found  in  Mrs  Gould's  compassion. 
It  is  the  chief  cause  oi  her  influence.  There  is  some- 
thing profoundly  beautiful  in  the  way  in  which,  by 
the  sincere  gentleness  of  her  pity,  she  heals  the 
withered  heart  of  Dr  Monygham.  And  it  is  to  her 
alone  that  Nostromo  is  willing  to  reveal  the  baleful 
secret  of  the  hidden  silver.  In  fact,  she  is  universally 
beloved  because,  in  the  deep  wisdom  of  her  femininity, 
she  has  the  precious  gifts  of  unselfishness,  of  dignity, 
and  of  pity.  There  is  a  magnetic  attraction  about 
Mrs  Gould.  She  inspires  faith  in  goodness.  And 
yet  she  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  figures  in  all  litera- 
ture. If  Balzac  had  been  a  greater  artist  in  words 
no  doubt  he  would  have  made  Pere  Goriot  extra- 
ordinarily pathetic,  but,  as  it  is,  there  is  not  the 
sustained  finish  about  his  portrait  that  there  is  about 
Mrs  Gould's.  I  consider  that  this  capacity  for  creat- 
ing a  quite  beautiful  and  tender  figure,  who  passes 
through  the  book  radiating  gentleness  and  under- 
standing upon  all  the  bhnd  prejudice  of  life,  reveals 
a  very  noble  talent.  In  some  respects  Isabel  Archer 
of  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady  is  a  similar  type.     But  there 


148  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

are  lapses  in  Henry  James'  portrait,  moments  when 
he  seems  to  nod  (not  in  his  style — he  never  nods  there 
— bmt  in  his  psychology)  ;  whereas  Conrad's  portrait 
of  Mrs  Gould  is  invariably  fresh  and  exact.  It  is 
when  Henry  James  is  at  his  best  that  his  Isabel  Archer 
reminds  me  so  strongly  of  Mrs  Gould.  Is  there 
anytliing  more  heartbreaking  in  literature  than  that 
scene  when  Isabel  Archer  is  sitting  by  the  side  of  the 
dying  Ralph  Touchett,  trying  to  tell  him  all  her  un- 
happiness,  unburdening  her  heart  at  last  in  the  bitter 
grief  and  solemn  gladness  of  their  parting.  It  is  at 
such  a  moment,  I  repeat,  that  Isabel  Archer  remands 
me  of  Mrs  Gould.  For  there  is,  indeed,  something 
intensely  tragic  about  Mrs  Gould.  She  is  not  only 
powerless  to  avert  the  great  sorrow  of  her  life — the 
slow  fading  of  Charles  Gould's  love— but  she  is  at 
last,  this  fragile  and  pathetic  figure,  invaded  by  the 
poison  of  doubt.  She  who  has  succoured  every  one, 
is  unable  to  succour  herself,  is  filled  in  her  loneliness 
by  an  awful  misgiving  as  to  her  own  power.  As  Conrad 
says,  towards  the  end  of  the  book  : — 

Mrs  Gould  leaned  back  in  the  shade  of  the  big  trees  planted 
in  a  circle.  She  leaned  back  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her 
white  hands  lying  idle  on  the  arms  of  her  seat.  The  half- 
light  under  the  thick  mass  of  leaves  brought  out  the  youthful 
prettiness  of  her  face  ;  made  the  clear  Hght  fabrics  and  white 
lace  of  her  dress  appear  luminous.  Small  and  dainty,  as  if 
radiating  a  light  of  her  own  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  inter- 
laced boughs^  she  resembled  a  good  fairy,  weary  with  a  long 
career  of  well-doing,  touched  by  the  withering  suspicion  of 
the  uselessness  of  her  labours,  the  powerlessness  of  her  magic. 
(Nostromo,  p.  442.) 

y;i  But  even  the  bitterness  of  lost  hope  can  but  scratch 
the  surface  of  her  compassion,  and  that  is  why  I  am 
unable  to  believe  that  she  would  ever  have  used  these 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  149 


words  of  biting  cynicism  to  the  fair  Giselle,  which 
Conrad  puts  into  her  mouth.  I  quote  the  scene  here, 
not  because  it  is  striking  in  itself  but  because  it  seems 
to  me  the  one  false  touch  in  this  most  beautiful  of 
portraits  : — 

"  Console  yourself,  child.  Very  soon  he  would  have 
forgotten  you  for  his  treasure." 

"  Seiiora,  he  loved  me.  He  loved  me/'  Giselle  whispered, 
despairingly.  "  He  loved  me  as  no  one  had  ever  been  loved 
before." 

"  I  have  been  loved  too,"  Mrs  Gould  said  in  a  severe  tone. 
(Nostromo,  p.  476.) 

;:    As  Conrad   remarks,  it  was  *'  the   first  and  only 

""moment  of  cynical  bitterness  in  her  life  " — but  all 
the  same  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that  she 
could  have  had  such  a  moment :  not  even  when  I 
remember  that  she  had  just  come  from  a  last  talk 
with  Nostromo  (Giselle's  lover,  wounded  to  death) 
about  the  silver — the  silver  that  had  wrecked  his  life 
and  had  wrecked  hers — the  accursed  silver  of  the  mine. 
No,  Mrs  Gould  has  cast  her  spell  over  me  as  she  did, 
all  unwittingly,  over  the  characters  in  Nostromo, 
and  I  decline  to  believe  that  a  word  of  cynicism  ever 
escaped  her  lips.  Her  compassion  was  too  genuine 
for  her  to  have  loosed  from  her  heart  the  secret  of  her 
own  unhappiness.  As  I  said  before,  she  is  still — very 
still.     She  suffers  deep  within  herself,  keeping  to  the 

-  world  her  air  of  gentle  wisdom  and  sympathy.  It  was 
Dr  Monygham  alone,  who,  in  his  unbounded  reverence 
for  her,  guessed  all  the  darkness  of  her  secret. 

X'  Now  let  us  look  at  Winnie  Verloc.     It  is  easier,  in 

/  a  sense,  to  fathom  her  character  than  to  fathom  Mrs 

I.  Gould's  character,  because  it  is  concentrated  in  the 

/  one  devouring  passion  of  her  maternal  love  for  her 

{  brother.     Winnie    Verloc   is    tragic    in    the    terrible 


150  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


directness  and  intensity  of  her  devotion — tragic,  I 
mean,  quite  apart  from  the  fate  overhanging  her  and 
her  beloved.  She  hves  only  for  Stevie,  she  has  married 
for  him,  she  has  sacrificed  everything  for  his  happiness. 
She  is  not  like  Mrs  Gould,  spreading  around  her  the 
instinctive  and  magnetic  power  of  her  sympathy,  for 
she  exists  entirely  in  this  one  passion  of  her  laborious 
and  secluded  days.  She  suppresses  herself  for  Stevie  ; 
she  does  not  expand  with  the  natural  warmth  of  Mrs 
Gould.  One  of  the  truest  touches  about  her  is  this 
suggestion  of  a  reserve  force  of  fierce  passion  and 
abandon.  We  are  told  that  she  never  allowed  herself 
to  think  of  Comrade  Ossipon  —  the  man  seci^etTy 
attractive  to  her.  Everything  seems  to  be  contained 
in  that — a  whole  underworld  of  emotion  damned  by 
her  pure  and  selfless  love  for  the  half-witted  Stevie. 
Winnie  Verloc  is  quite  unconscious  of  herself  ;  her 
love  is  the  natural  outpouring  of  her  compassion,  a 
real  maternal  affection  derived  from  the  years  when, 
as  a  little  girl,  she  protected  a  still  smaller  brother 
from  the  brutal  onslaughts  of  their  father.  And  in 
this  conception  of  Winnie  Verloc  one  seems  to  see  her 
physically  from  Conrad's  description  just  as  clearly 
as  one  sees  Mrs  Gould — the  one  dark,  of  a  full  build, 
with  a  steadfast  expression,  the  other  very  fair,  very 
slight,  and  with  a  face  of  active  and  tactful  sympathy 
— so  alike,  somehow,  in  all  their  dissimilarity.  And 
Winnie  Verloc  is  still — even  stiller  than  Mrs  Gould — 
contained,  wordless,  not  given  to  worrying  over  a 
v/orld  that  didn't  "  bear  looking  into."  Hers  is  the 
tragedy  of  a  sublime  self-suppression.  That  is  why 
the  breaking-down  of  her  fortifications  is  so  sudden 
and  dreadful.  She  is  a  pent-up  river,  and  in  the  shock- 
ing outrage  to  her  love  she  loses  the  one  thing  that 
held  her  to  conventional  ties.     The  frenzy  of  Winnie 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  151 


Verloc's  last  hours  is  not  alone  terrible  it  is  absolutely 
natural — as  natural  as  Lear's  frenzy.  By  losing  Stcvie 
she  has  not  only  lost  all,  but  she  has  suffered  an  un- 
speakable injury.  It  is  as  though  the  heavens  had 
fallen  on  her  in  the  mad  deluge  of  a  final  reckoning. 

But  what  we  must  specially  bear  in  mind  both  in 
regard  to  Mrs  Gould  and  Winnie  Verloc  and,  indeed, 
in  regard  to  Conrad's  other  principal  figures,  is  their 
inner  reality — a  reality,  as  it  were,  rooted  in  their 
very  fibres.  I  emphasise  this  obvious  point  simply 
because  one  cannot  demonstrate  it  by  examples.  And, 
after  all,  it  is  the  one  thing  that  actually  makes  them 
important.  On  the  puppets  of  a  novelist  every 
other  gift  may  be  showered  profusely  and  yet  they 
may  remain  as  uninteresting  as  stones.  For  it  is  only 
when  they  have  breath  in  them  that  the  words  whicli 
describe  their  qualities  take  on  a  hue  of  colour.  Mrs 
Gould  is  affecting  because  she  is  so  entirely  human 
in  her  compassionate  philosophy,  Winnie  Verloc  is 
tragic  because  her  devotion  has  the  unconscious 
grandeur  of  a  real  woman's  lack  of  an  ordered  sense 
of  proportion. 

In  the  gallery  of  Conrad's  finest  women  a  number 
of  faces  come  before  me.  I  see  Winnie  Verloc's  mother, 
a  grotesque  figure,  but  with  a  heart  of  gold — moving 
in  the  very  strength  of  her  humility  and  unselfishness. 
We  do  not  even  know  her  name — she  is  just  Winnie 
Verloc's  mother.  Can  this  be  a  subtle  touch,  suggest- 
ing the  utter  effacement  of  her  brave  spirit  ?  But 
whether  intentional  or  not  it  heightens  the  impression 
of  her  character.  And  I  see  the  statuesque  Antonia 
Avellanos,  the  Spanish  foil  to  the  English  Mrs  Gould 
in  Nostromo.  Her  stillness  is  more  the  immobility 
of  a  proud  and  exalted  spirit  than  the  simple  "  wisdom 
of  the  heart  "  which  made  Mrs  Gould  so  worshipped. 


152  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


And  I  see  Nathalie  Haldin  {Under  Western  Eyes) 
young,  enthusiastic,  full  of  high  and  shining  thoughts, 
capable  of  devotion  and  suffering,  and  I  see  her 
mother,  an  unconsoled  and  tragic  figure  waiting  in 
vain  for  the  return  of  her  son.  The  picture  of  this 
bereaved  mother  is  one  of  the  most  piteous  things  in 
Conrad  : — 

Away  from  the  lamp,  in  the  deeper  dusk  of  the  distant  end, 
the  profile  of  Mrs  Haldin,  her  hands,  her  whole  figure  had  the 
stillness  of  a  sombre  painting.  Miss  Haldin  stopped,  and 
pointed  mournfully  at  the  tragic  immobility  of  her  mother, 
who  seemed  to  watch  a  beloved  head  lying  in  her  lap.  (Under 
Western  Eyes,  p.  350.) 

And  in  the  same  book,  Under  Western  Eyes,  I  see 
the  incorruptible,  unworldly-wise,  and  fanatical  Sophia 
Antonovna,  and  Tekla,  the  despised  slave  of  freedom, 
whose  tender  pity  for  the  outcast  and  the  unfor- 
tunate, softens  into  loving  devotion  the  eccentricity 
of  her  character.  And  looking  at  Tekla  I  remember 
a  figure  somewhat  like  hers — the  figure  of  Amy  Foster 
(''Amy  Foster").  There,  too,  you  see  a  woman 
ennobled  by  pity,  so  ennobled  that  her  whole 
nature  seems  to  flower  before  your  eyes.  But  Am^ 
Foster  has  not  the  steadfast  philosophy  behind  her 
compassionate  devotion  which  enables  Tekla  to 
survive  all  the  disillusionments  of  life — she  is  like 
a  dumb  creature  unable  to  control  her  likes  and  fears. 
And  of  the  same  breed  is  Bessie  Carvil  ("  To-morrow  "), 
a  true  figure  of  tragedy.  The  whispers  of  romance 
and  love  sigh  in  her  ear  for  a  second  and  are  gone  for 
ever  into  the  darkness  of  a  night  without  hope.  Her 
unsleeping  care  of  her  loathsome  and  tyrannical 
father  show  the  full  sweep  of  feminine  renunciation, 
and  her  friendship  with  old  Hagberd  is  touching  in  its 
abiding   gentleness,    in   its   delicate   regard   for   the 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  153 


sensitiveness  of  an  insane  old  man.  But  it  is  the 
adventurer  Harry  Hagberd,  that  lover  of  all  pretty 
women,  who  with  a  word  can  pluck  the  very  heart 
out  of  her  body.     Again,  the  tragedy  of  repression  ! 

Another  of  Conrad's  mosl  moving  figures  is  that 
of  Freya  Nielsen  (*' Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands"). 
Hers  is  a  character  of  loyal  and  confident  goodness, 
a  staunch,  straightforward,  joyous  character,  sure 
of  itself  and  of  its  powers.  Her  love  for  Jasper  Allen 
is  without  alloy  and  just  sufficiently  domineering  to 
be  maternal,  but  she  has  to  manoeuvre  to  gain  her  end 
with  her  old  father.  And  it  is  in  this  manoeuvring 
that  she  ruins  not  only  her  own  life  but  her  lover's 
as  well.  In  this  story  of  simplicity  and  deception 
there  shows  up  something  of  the  real,  dark  hand  of 
fate.  I  cannot  quite  accept  the  later  psychology  of 
Freya  Nielsen.  Would  such  strength  of  character, 
such  utter  reliability,  such  resource,  have  collapsed 
so  completely  without  a  struggle  ?  And  when  at 
last  she  heard  from  her  father  of  Jasper's  desperate 
condition  would  she  not  have  gone  to  him — she  who 
had  been  planning  to  elope  with  him — in  spite  of  all  i 
I  think  there  is  a  certain  error  in  accepting  the  develop- 
ments of  her  psychology  unless  one  admits  that  fate 
does  play  tricks  that  can  stagger  even  the  constancy 
of  a  faithful  heart. 

And  one  feels,  to  begin  with,  somewhat  of  the  same 
misgiving,  too,  about  Cornelius'  daughter  in  Lord 
Jim.  Would  this  true  companion  to  Jim  have  failed, 
so  tragically,  to  forgive  him  in  the  end  ?  One  has 
to  remember,  of  course,  that  she  lacks  all  the  subtlety 
of  education,  of  experience,  of  knowledge  of  the  world 
— but  love  generally  supplies  a  profound,  intuitive 
grasp  of  character..  But  in  this  case,  although  one 
has  doubts  at  first,  one  comes  to  see,  I  think,  that 


154  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Conrad's  psychology  is  quite  right.  To  an  untutored 
mind  Uke  hers  no  act  of  reparation  could  pardon  the 
Callous  treachery  of  this  last  desertion.  (For  such  it 
must  inevitably  have  appeared  to  her.)  The  concrete 
intelligence  of  primitive  woman  has  little  to  do  with 
the  endless  niceties  of  personal  honour.  Cornelius' 
daughter  is  the  sort  of  woman  who  would  never  be 
comforted,  and  who,  in  her  dumb  misery,  would  revenge 
herself  upon  the  memory  of  her  faithless  lover.  Such 
women  will  forgive  anything  save  an  offence  against 
y(    their  loyalty. 

—  The  character  of  Flora  de  Barral  in  Chance,  which  I 
will  now  discuss,  is  a  far  more  intricate  one.  This 
is  amongst  Conrad's  greatest,  although  not  amongst 
his  most  sympathetic,  creations.  (The  real  beauty 
of  her  mind  is  a  thing  developed,  as  it  were,  outside 
the  story.)  For  her  nature  has  been  embittered  as 
a  girl,  embittered  by  brutality,  by  poverty,  by  neglect ; 
and  through  nearly  all  the  book  we  see  her  under  the 
cloud  of  her  suffering  pride.  It  was  this  starved 
unhappiness  that  roused  in  Captain  "AntHony  the 
chivalrous  torrent  of  his  pity.  One  feels  that  Flora 
de  Barral  has  been  warped  and  stunted  in  her  mind — 
she  has  been  so  misused  that  she  has  ceased  not  alone 
to  believe  in,  but  almost  to  realise,  such  a  thing  as 
sympathetic  kindness.  That  is  why  one  understands 
so  clearly  that,  though  she  is  a  woman  in  years,  she 
is  no  more  than  a  bewildered  (and  often  disagreeable) 
child  in  feeling.  It  needed  the  rare  compassion  of 
a  Captain  Anthony  to  thrust  aside  the  barriers  of  her 
mis-shapen  intelligence  and  to  read  aright  the  miserable 
story  of  her  life. 

And  while  we  are  discussing  Flora  de  Barral  we  may 
consider  her  friend  and  protector  Mrs  Fyne.  Conrad 
knew  what  he  was  about  when  he  drew  Mrs  Fyne. 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  155 


Scarcely  ever  has  his  touch  been  surer.  Foi  Mrs 
Fyne  is  the  epitome  of  the  commonplace  mind  (in  its 
strong  form),  with  all  its  sterling  merits  and  all  its 
limitations.  To  Flora  de  Barral  she  is  kindness  itself 
up  to  a  point  and  she  even  comprehends  her  up  to  a 
point ;  but  she  is  fatally  wanting  in  imagination. 
Just  so  far,  and  no  further,  can  she  go.  Few  psy- 
chologists would  have  had  the  courage  to  make  her 
veer  round  so  abruptly  in  her  opinion  of  Flora  de 
Barral.  It  is  Conrad,  with  his  precise  knowledge  of 
the  heart,  who  realises  that  a  woman  like  Mrs  Fyne 
can  be  truly  compassionate  as  long  as  her  convention- 
ality is  not  shocked,  but  that  she  can  be  hard  and  un- 
forgiving outside  those  limits. 

But,  to  return  for  a  minute  to  more  amiable  types, 
we  may  consider  another  of  Conrad's  mysteriousl}' 
attractive  women — Hermann's  niece  in  "  Falk."  She 
does  very  little  throughout  the  story,  but  she  dominates 
the  scene  at  last  by  the  sheer  splendour  of  her  physical 
attractions  and  the  tranquil  gentleness  of  her  pity. 
She  is  a  curiousl}^  alluring  figure  because  there  is 
something  exciting  and  touching  about  her  immobility. 
Falk,  that  lover  of  life,  felt  her  spell  upon  him  as 
an  agonising  fever.  And,  indeed,  she  is  a  very  syren 
of  attraction — an  unconscious  syren.  She  is  as  much 
the  typical  female  as  Falk  is  the  typical  male.  There 
is,  in  particular,  one  splendid  description  of  her 
which  I  will  give  here  : — 

The  girl  alone  in  the  cabin  sat  sewing  at  some  distance 
from  the  table.  Falk  stopped  short  in  the  doorway.  With- 
out a  word,  without  a  sign,  without  the  slightest  inclination 
of  his  bony  head,  by  the  silent  intensity  of  his  look  alone,  he 
seemed  to  lay  his  herculean  frame  at  her  feet.  Her  hands 
sank  slowly  on  her  lap,  and  raising  her  clear  eyes,  she  let  her 
soft,  beaming  glance  enfold  him  from  head  to  foot  like  a  slow 
and  pale  caress.     He  was  very  hot  when  he  sat  down  ;  she, 


156  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

with  bowed  head,  went  on  with  her  sewing  ;  her  neck  was 
very  white  under  tlie  hght  of  the  lamp  ;  but  Faik^  hiding  his 
face  in  the  pahns  of  his  hands,  shuddered  faintly.  {Typhoon, 
-Falk/' pp.  236-7.) 

She  is  strong  because  she  is  all  unconscious  of  her 
.^^trength.  And  it  is  that,  in  Nostromo,  which  renders 
the  fair  Giselle  so  much  more  fatal  than  the  dark  Linda, 
her  sister.  Giselle  Viola,  sitting  always  with  downcast 
eyes,  silently  absorbed,  secretly  stealing  away 
Nostromo's  heart,  resembles  a  lovely  and  deadly 
flower.  The  sleepy  luxuriance  of  her  triumph  is 
hardly  more  to  her  than  the  yawn  of  a  playful  panther. 
But  against  that  yielding  softness  the  passionate  love 
of  the  dark  Linda  counts  for  nothing.  In  the  seductive 
innocence  of  her  nature  the  fair  Giselle  has  the  charm 
of  centuries  of  experience. 

Something  of  the  same  should,  perhaps,  be  said 
of  Nina  Almayer  {Almayer's  Folly),  of  Aissa  (An 
Outcast  of  the  Islands),  of  Alice  Jacobus  ("  A  Smile  of 
Fortune  "),  and  even  of  that  very  shadowy  lady,  Miss 
Etchingham  Granger  (The  Inheritors).  Nina  Almayer 
is  certainly  unconscious  of  her  attraction  for  Dain 
Maroola,  though  she  yields  to  love  with  the  abandon 
of  her  wild  and  passionate  nature.  The  glamour 
of  mysterious  romance  hangs  over  Nina  Almayer 
almost  more  than  over  any  other  character  in  Conrad. 
This  girl,  forsaking  her  white  father  to  fly  across  the 
sea  with  her  dark  lover,  suggests  the  very  call  of 
the  wilderness  in  her  blood.  The  fierce  tenderness 
of  her  love  throws  a  wonderful  and  reviving  freshness 
across  the  sombre  gloom  of  Sambir  and  over  the 
weariness  of  her  own  past  existence.  It  is  interesting 
to  note  how  the  power  of  her  white  blood  gives  her 
an  immensely  greater  attraction  for  us  than  a  figure 
like  Aissa — a  woman  equally  passionate  and  untamed. 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  157 


For  Aissa,  too,  is  unconscious  of  her  might,  though, 
as  soon  as  it  arouses  response  in  the  breast  of  Willems, 
she  uses  it  with  all  her  barbaric  cunning.  As  for 
Alice  Jacobus  (an  even  more  desolate  figure  than 
Flora  de  Barral),  her  attraction  is  not  only  unknown 
to  her  but  actually  incomprehensible  to  the  disgusted 
sulkiness  of  her  mind.  She  is  a  very  singular  creation. 
Watching  her  is  like  watching  the  emergence  of 
personality  from  the  wilderness  of  feminine  caprice. 
In  regard  to  Miss  Etchingham  Granger  (a  figure  of 
wood  and  not,  I  should  suspect,  Conrad's  invention 
at  all),  she  has  the  charm,  so  to  speak,  of  the  fourth 
dimension  in  her.  She  attracts  men  because  she  is 
the  super-woman,  I  suppose — what  one  may  call 
a  fortuitous  circumstance. 

In  Almayer's  Folly  Conrad  has  drawn,  in  Taminah, 
the  girl  slave,  a  strange  and  tragic  figure  of  voiceless 
grief — a  figure  almost  as  strange,  indeed,  as  that  of 
Nina  Almayer,  and  more  tragic  in  her  unrequited  love. 
She  is  a  true  child  of  the  patient  wilderness,  typifying 
impressively  the  speechless  suffering  of  savage  hearts. 

In  Romance  there  are  two  delightful  women — 
Seraphina  Riego  and  Mrs  Williams.  There  is  nothing 
deep  about  them,  for  they  are  intended,  after  all,  to 
be  figures  of  pure  romance  ;  but  the}^  have  the  fine 
traits  of  courage,  of  compassion,  and  of  noble  simpli- 
city— with  enough  of  reality  to  make  them  lovable. 
In  their  inconceivable  and  hopeless  difference  (the  one 
a  young  Cuban  aristocrat,  the  other  the  puritanical 
and  middle-aged  wife  of  a  Bristol  sea  captain),  they 
show  quahties  of  a  similar  spirited  and  delightful  order. 

But  though  Conrad  could  imagine  two  very  dis- 
similar women  en  rapport  with  one  another  he  could 
also  imagine  a  mother  and  daughter  fundamentally 
estranged.     There  is  the  case  of  Susan  Bacadou  and 


158  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

her  mother,  Madame  Levaille,  in  "  The  Idiots."  The 
ties  of  the  flesh  in  this  instance  are  almost  the  only 
ties  that  join  the  cowering  daughter  to  the  self-sufiicient 
and  strong-minded  mother — although  in  her  final 
act  of  rebellion  the  natural  submissiveness  of  the 
younger  seems  to  have  been  fired  by  the  independent 
spirit  of  the  elder — instinct  asserting  itself  over 
personality.  But  I  daresay  this  is  a  fanciful  inter- 
pretation of  a  tragic  occurrence. 

Conrad  has  drawn,   at  times,   definitely  offensive 

women.     Madame  de  S ,  in  Under  Western  Eyes, 

is  an  excellent  example,  so  is  the  girl  in  "  The 
Informer,"  and  the  governess  in  Chance  (a  person 
as  sinister  as  Balzac's  evil  women) — but  Mrs  Hervey, 
in  "  The  Return,"  though  very  unattractive  for  the 
most  part,  is  in  a  rather  different  category.  It  is 
in  such  figures  that  Conrad  instills  all  the  venom  of 
his  hatred  of  insincerity  and  vapid  pose.  For  it  is 
only  those  who  understand  real  women  who  can 
unmask  frauds  with  such  a  degree  of  bitter  con- 
tempt. I  do  think  that  is  why,  in  certain  people, 
great  tenderness  towards  some  is  so  often  accom- 
panied by  great  dislike  towards  others. 

I  have  now  considered  most  of  the  important  women 
in  Conrad's  books.  And  if  I  should  be  blamed  for 
devoting  over  much  space  to  a  few  figures  at  the  ex- 
pense of  others,  I  can  only  reply  that  these  are  the 
figures  that  Conrad,  himself,  has  elaborated  most 
carefully.  In  such  portraits  as  those  of  Mrs  Gould 
and  Winnie  Verloc  he  has  concentrated  the  very 
essence  of  his  conclusions  and  of  his  sympathy.  For, 
above  everything  else,  he  requires  a  subtle  femininity 
in  his  women.     As  Marlow  says  : — 

Observe    that    I    say    "  femininity,"    a    privilege — not 
"  feminism/'  an  attitude.     {Chance,  p.   133.) 


CONRAD'S  WOMEN  159 


In  Conrad's  eyes  all  the  graces  of  intuition  and  pity 
in  women  spring  from  this  subtle  femininity.  His 
finest  women,  it  is  true,  are  women  of  character  and 
resolve,  but  they  have  the  feminine  temperament. 
Not  only  is  there  no  antagonism  between  the  two, 
but  they  are  in  accord  with  one  another.  It  is  only  the 
muddle-headed  who  would  deny  it.  And  Conrad's 
women  do  not  trade  on  their  sex — their  femininity 
is  unconscious.  Meredith  drew  splendid  women  but 
they  are  splendid  with  the  glitter  of  typically  exalted 
characteristics.  But  Conrad's  women  are  beautiful 
because  they  are  unaware  of  their  gifts  and  are 
pictured  without  the  aid  of  heaped-up  glories.  In 
short,  they  are  more  individualised  portraits  than 
Meredith's,  and,  consequently,  they  possess  that 
magnetic  charm  which,  so  often,  is  just  lacking  in 
his.  Such  is  my  opinion,  though  I  v/ill  add  that  a 
lady  I  know  assures  me  that  it  is  the  converse  that 
is  accurate — that,  indeed,  it  is  Meredith's  women  who 
are  individual  and  Conrad's  who  are  typical.  She 
says  that  Meredith  understands  women  from  a 
woman's  point  of  view  whereas  Conrad  only  under- 
stands them  from  a  man's  point  of  view.  This  does 
seem  to  me  a  very  fallacious  way  of  looking  at  the 
matter.  (It  is  the  question  of  "personality"  as 
apart  from  "  character,"  that  I  discussed  in  the  last 
chapter.)  If  a  woman  has  a  charming  and  com- 
passionate nature  it  is  ridiculous  to  say  that  that  is 
a  man's  point  of  view — it  is  merely  true.  I  quite 
admit  that  there  are  certain  types  more  sympathetic 
to  one  sex  than  to  the  other,  but  in  so  far  as  these 
differences  are  accentuated  the  type  is  morbid.  The 
fact  is,  that  when  a  man  talks  about  a  woman's  point 
of  view  or  a  woman  talks  about  a  man's  point  of  view 
in  relation  to  sex,  they  always  have  in  mind  the  point 


160  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

of  view  of  the  typical  narrow-minded  man  or  fanatical 
woman.  I  am  not  denying  that  it  is  'possible  that 
Meredith's  women  may  be  more  individual  than 
Conrad's.  That,  I  presume,  is  a  matter  of  opinion — 
and,  in  the  sense  that  Meredith  can,  admittedly,  probe 
into  the  nervous  crises  in  women,  I  will  even  admit 
that  there  is,  in  appearance,  quite  a  strong  case  for 
the  contention — but  I  do  hope  that  people  will  not 
found  their  arguments  on  this  rigid  conception  of 
personality.  The  truth  is,  surely,  that  certain  types 
of  men  understand  certain  types  of  women,  and  vice 
versa,  better  than  members  of  their  own  sex  do. 
But  that  is  by  the  way.  Reality  is  the  chief  considera- 
tion in  character- drawing,  and  it  is  fanciful  to  suppose 
that  what  is  individual  in  the  eyes  of  one  sex  may  be 
only  typical  in  the  eyes  of  the  other.  Such  are  the 
errors  that  build  up  the  barriers  of  a  mutual  estrange- 
ment. 

But  to  return  to  something  less  polemical,  I  should 
remind  the  reader  that  when  I  speak  in  these  high 
terms  of  Conrad's  women,  I  am,  of  course,  referring 
only  to  his  finest  creations.  For  some  of  the  others 
are  mere  sketches,  and  some  of  them  are  not  even 
convincing — Dona  Erminia,  for  instance,  in  "  Caspar 
Ruiz."  No,  I  speak  of  the  few  who  stand  in  the  fore- 
front of  his  work.  In  such  there  is,  indeed,  a  kind 
of  deep,  intense  glow  of  life,  reminding  one,  somehow, 
of  Turner's  sunsets  or  of  that  ruddy  health  which 
seems  to  lie  under  the  skin  of  certain  people.  It 
is  one  of  these  things  one  feels  very  strongly  but 
which  eludes  all  description.  *  It  is  the  secret  of 
creative  realism. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CONRAD'S  IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR 

It  requires  no  particular  astuteness  to  discover  that 
theliony  of  contrast  is  often  present' in  the  works 
of  Conrad.  It  is  only  the  wideness  and  subtlety  of  its 
ramifications  that  may  escape  attention.  Indeed, 
Qhere  is  something  elusive  and  elf-like  about  it.  His 
irony  ranges  over  a  spacious  field,  from  simple  sarcasm 
te  broad  humour,  from^a  mere  breath  to  a  pervasive 
atmosphere  J  from  the  kindliness  of  Anatole  France 
'to  the  savagery  of  William  Beckford.  But^the  root 
p^^it^  all  is  the  melancholy  of  disillusionment  rather 
than  "an  actually  sceptical  view  of  existence]  It  is, 
perhaps,  this  northern  and  Slavonic  melancholy 
which  gives  to  his  irony  its  singular  quality.  We  know 
the  brusque  irony  of  Voltaire,  the  suave  irony  of  Jane 
Austen — typical  enough  representatives  of  the  Latin 
and  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind — but^n  irony  like  Conrad's 
is  bewildering  not  alone  in  its  ceaseless  variety  but 
in  its  very  foundations.  For  the  ironic  melancholy 
of  Turgenev  or  Galsworthy  is  something  quite  apart 
from  the  ironic  melancholy  of  Conrad.  They  are 
depressed  because  life,  which  is  beautiful,  is  also 
futile,  and  their  irony  is  a  sort  of  shield  for  their  own 
sensibility — but  Conrad  is  untouched  by  artistic 
egoism  of  this  description.  His  irony  is  the  cause 
of  his  melancholy  — he  does  not  fall  back  upon  irony 
as  a  shelter  from  pessimistic  conclusion_S;i 

But  we  must  remember  that^with   Conrad  irony 

'  181 


162  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

is  not  solely  a  philosophic  conception,  but  is  also 
an  artistic  method  of  presenting  a  picture  or  even 
of  creating  an  atmosphere. j  There  is  a  certain  unity, 
a  certain  perspective  to  be  gained  from  viewing  men 
from  an  ironical  standpoint.  And,  indeed,  Conrad  is 
very  fond  of  this  method.  In  such  tales  as  "  Heart 
of  Darkness,"  Lord  Jim,  and  Chance,  Marlow,  who  may 
be  called  Conrad's  familiar  devil — (there  is  a  general 
idea  that  Marlow  is  Conrad  himself,  but,  of  course, 
Conrad  is  the  shadowy  person  in  the  background  who 
listens  to  Marlow) — serves  to  .give._us_^  Conrad's  own 
m.elancholy  and  ironical  philosophy,  but  when  we  con- 
sider a  book  li^ieTfiE'S'FcrerAgent  we  are  faced  :with  a 
much  more  delicate  use  of  the  ironic  method.  For  the 
whole  fabric  of  The  Secret  Agent  is  ironic— ^no  one 
can  appreciate  it  vv'ho  misses  that — and  ironic  in  a 
very  impersonal  way.  In  other  words,  the  irony  of 
The  Secret  Agent  is  more  an  artistic  than  a  philosophic 
attitude.  The  Secret  Agent,  in  its  very  idea,  is  studied 
irony,  not  cruel,  not  probing,  but  quite  emotionless. 
It  is  satire  minus  the  sting  and  the  laugh.  Meredith 
with  his  theory  of  the  Comic  Spirit  might  well  have 
appreciated  this  book — though  the  Comic  Spirit  is, 
in  essence,  an  inhuman  invention.  For,  as  far  as 
I  can  judge,  the  Comic  Spirit  feeds  its  vitality  upon 
imagining  a  state  of  things  which  positively  does  not 
exist.  As  often  as  not  it  is  a  mere  paradox.  More- 
over, by  its  creator's  own  definition  it  can  breathe 
only  in  the  rarified  air  of  a  universal  culture.  But 
^true  irony  is  not  necessarily  other  than  a  form  of 
aloofness.)  The  Comic  Spirit  is  a  brilliant  fancy, 
yielding  occasional  revelations  buj;  leaving  dark 
an  immense  side  of  life  ;  .whereasj^the  ironic  spirit, 
in  all  its  branches,  is  but  the  wisdom  of  knowledge 
and  often  of  bitter  experience.)  In  redding  such  a 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     163 


book  as  The  Secret  Agent,  or,  in  a  lesser  degree,  such 
a  book  as  Under  Western  Eyes,  we  feel  that  Conrad 
is  a  mere  watcher  leaving  his  characters  to  fight  out 
alone  with  fate  the  battle  of  good  and  evil,  of  purpose 
and  futility.  Not  that  Conrad  exactly  obtrudes 
himself  in  his  earlier  work  but  that  he  is  always  close 
at  hand.  One  is  conscious  of  the  difference.  This 
atmosphere  surrounding  The  Secret  Agent  is  un- 
ostentatious and  may  easily  be  missed.  And  the 
reason  of  that  is  that  it  is  the  idea  of  the  book,  as  I 
say,  that  is  ironic — much  of  the  material  is,  in  itself, 
essentially  tragic. 

And  so  Conrad's  irony;^  may  be  impersonal  as  in 
The  Secret  Agent,  may_  be  melancholy^as  in  Lord 
JiMj  or  may,  indeed,  be  a  thing  outside  himself  alto- 
gether as^^in  "The  Informer .3  In  The  Secret  Agent 
heJs,Qbs^BmfigTthe  world,  m  Lord  Jim  he  is  judging 
the  world,  in  '',The  Informer"  he  is  creating  irony 
as  an  asset  of  character.  Mr  X  in  that  story  is  not 
primarily  a  subject  for  irony,  he  is  ironic  himself — 
or,  rather,  he  is  ruthlessly  sardonic.  Nowhere  does 
Conrad  show  his  mastery  of  the  sardonic  more  elo- 
quently than  in  Mr  X.  For  to  be  ironic  at  the  ex- 
pense of  others  is  sometimes  easy  enough,  but  to  form 
a  person  whose  irony  is  sufficient,  one  might  think, 
to  make  his  very  creator  uncomfortable  is  a  real 
feat  of  imagination.  This  is  not  the  sort  of  point  it  is 
worth  while  dwelling  on,  of  course,  but  it  will  serve 
to  introduce  a  discussion  as  to  the  temper  of  Conrad's 
irony.  Mr  X,  as  I  have  observed,  is  ruthlessly  sar- 
donic— lashed,  as  it  were,  by  a  cold  fury  against  con- 
ventional respectability  ;  and  Conrad,  himself,  though 
far  too  balanced  a  mind  to  be  an  echo  of  Mr  X's 
extravagances,  can  yet,  on  occasions,  be  as  scathing 
as  Swift  himself. ,'   There  are  cruel  moments  in  Conrad's 


164  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

intellect,  extraordinarily  incompassionate  and  cruel 
moments.  They  pass  and  are  gone,  but  they  are  ever 
ready  to  leap  out  upon  the  unwary.  They  resemble 
sudden  and  piercing  stabs  unbaring  at  one  thrust 
the  hideous  nakedness  of  the  heart.  vThey  are  simply 
terrific.  The  sardonic  spirit  is  more  prevalent  in 
Conrad's  recent  books  than  in  his  early  ones.^  In  his 
earlier  books  he  can  be  violently  sarcastic^^as  in  his 
description  in  "  The  Return "  of  Alvan"  Hervey's 
reason  for  supporting  a  society  publication  or,  as  in 
his  description  in  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  of  the  glorious 
and  civilising  activities  of  the  Great  Company  ;  but 
in  his  later  work,  such  work  as  "  An  Anarchist  "  or 
**  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands "  or  Some  Reminis-, 
cences,  tlie  shafts  aimed  at  rottenness  have  the  biting,; 
mordant,  and  sombre  irony  that  eats  into  the  very 
flesh.  But  that  all  this  implies  a  change  in  Conrad's 
attitude  to  life,  other  than  a  development  in  his 
whole  conception  of  the  writer's  art,  is  questionable. 
No  doubt  one  change  might  reasonably  imply  the  other, 
but,  With  Conrad,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the 
balance  of  influence  is  artistic  rather  than  philosopl32 
For  it  is  with  his  later  reserve  of  manner  that  the 
humour  of  his  mind  has  grown  more  sardonic  and  the 
pessimism  of  his  philosophy  less  prone  to  obvious 
revelation.  We  can  notice  this  particularly  in  his 
last  four  books. 

However,  I  must  take  care  what  I  say  about  the 
differences  in  his  work  or  I  shall  find  myself  nailed 
down  to  a  definition  which  can  be  made  to  refute  me 
out  of  its  own  mouth.  I  don't  deny  for  an  instant 
that  one  could  unearth  examples,  both  in  Conrad'j 
earlier  and  in  his  later  work,  that  would  render  2 
precisely  different  reading  to  my  theories  (for  example 
the  irony  of  "  A  Smile  of  Fortune  "  is  almost  tendei 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR      165 


in  regard  to  Jacobus  and  his  daughter  though  it  is 
sardonic  in  regard  to  the  "  smile  "  itself),  but,  after 
all,  I  am  only  trying  to  point  out  the  tendency  to  change 
in  Conrad's  attitude.  I  only  state  that  [where  he 
once  was  sarcastic  he  is  now  sardonic,  and  that  the  a 
most  probable  reason  for  this  is,  in  the  main,  an  in-  'T^ 
creased  precision  of  styl^— and,  roughly,  I  believe 
that  to  be  the  truth.  There  is  every  sign  that  Conrad 
has  altered  his  style,  not  only  in  its  form  but  in  its 
method  of  presenting  his  opinions,  but  there  is  next 
to  no  proof  that  his  philosophy  to-day  is  different  from 
what  it  was  fifteen  years  ago. 

But  all  this  is  only  one  aspect  of  Conrad's  irony. 

f  Incongruous  association,  for  example,  throws  a  touch 

"of  pensive  and  premeditated  irony  over  all  the  four 

stories  in  Typhoon.     This  special  aspect  of  the  irony 

of  contrast  has  a  philosophic  basis  which  acts  as  a 

telling,   even  if  a  risky,   dramatic  expedient.     It  is 

the  unimaginative  MacWhirr  ("  Typhoon  ")  who  has 

to  face  the  might  of  the  storm,  it  is  the  dense  Amy 

Foster   ("Amy   Foster")   who  is  captivated  by  the 

brilliant  Yanko  Goorall,  it  is  the  respectable    Falk 

("  Falk ")   who    is    guilty   of  cannibalism,   it   is   the 

doting  Hagberd  ("  To-morrow  "),  a  father  who  lives 

for  his  son  alone,  who  fails  to  recognise  him  when  he 

)     appears,    .^uch  irony  takes  on  the  colour  of  its  sur- 

I     roundings — being,  let  us  say,   epic    in    "  Typhoon  "      .. 

and  pathetic  in  "  To-morrow."  It  is  true  that  in  a 
\  practised  and  skilful  hand  like  Conrad's  it  avoids 
j  the  unreality  that  lurks  in  wait  for  every  variety  of 
coincidence,  but,  all  the  same,  it  is  a  medium  that  has 
i  to  be  manipulated  with  the  nicest  artistic  balanced) 
\  *^  more  strictly  legitimate  use  of  this  type  of  irony 
"  is  in  the  contrast  of  character  to  character,  arising 
from  the  concealed  antagonisms  of  personality.     For 


166  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


in  the  latter  case  one  avoids  the  danger  (a  true  danger 
though  a  splendid  one)  of  symbolism.  When  stupid 
Captain  Mac  Whirr  conquers  the  fury  of  the  typhoon 
one  feels  instinctively  that  there  is  something  sym- 
bolic here  of  the  indomitable  soul  of  man,  but  when, 
in  Nostromo,  Charles  Gould's  love  fades  imperceptibly 
into  his  passion  for  his  mine,  such  symbolism  as  there 
is  is  swamped  in  contemplation  of  the  tragic  and  all 
too  common  likelihood  of  the  occurrence.  Both 
situations  are  ironic  and  both  situations  are  realistic, 
but  the  contrast  in  the  first  is  overwhelming  and,  as 
it  were,  material,  whilst  in  the  second  it  is  gradual 
and  inevitable.  Even  in  "  To-morrow "  it  is  the 
whole  setting  that  is  symbolic  rather  than  the  in- 
dividual relationships.  However  I  have  no  wish  to 
spin  my  threads  too  fine. 

4'  Com  ad's  sense  of  irony  derives,  at  times,  its  accumul- 
ative effect  from  the  junction  of  numerous  streams,  fl own- 
ing from  his  main  impulses.  In  the  pages  of  Nostromo, 
Decoud  and  Dr  Monygham  sum  up  in  their  caustic 
phrases  the  futility  and  meaninglessness  of  South 
American  civilisation,  but  before  ever  they  spoke  an 
impersonal  and  subtly  ironic  voice  had  breathed  the 
same  message  through  every  line.  /-Melancholy  and 
mockery  often  go  hand  in  hand  in  an  ironical  mind^ 
Here,  in  Nostromo  (though  Nostromo  is  not.  funda- 
mentally ironic  at  all  as  is  The  Ser/et  AgentJ\S^onv2,d' s 
irony  touches  all  the  sides  of  life./  It  touches,  as  we 
have  noticed,  the  Goulds,  sundered  for  ever  by  the 
power  of  "  material  interests,"  it  touches  Nostromo, 
killed  tragically  with  his  two  secrets  on  his  lips,  and 
it  touches,  in  a  grosser  sense,  a  man  like  Senor  Hirsch, 
throwing  himself  into  the  very  arms  of  the  one  thing 
he  fears  most  of  all — death.  Conrad  has  a  striking 
method  of  picturing  the  irony  of  "  now  and  then  " 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     167 


in  the  case  of  such  people  as  Senor  Hirsch.  He  does 
it  by  the  poUtest  reminder  of  their  former  state, 
repeated  several  times.  So  polite  is  it  that  it  might 
be  taken  as  a  mere  observation  rather  than  as  an 
ironical  aside.  I  will  give  one  instance,  apropos  of  the 
abject  Hirsch,  which  may  be  taken  as  typical  of  a 
very  usual  method  of  Conrad's  : — 

A  slight  quiver  passed  up  the  taut  rope  from  the  racked 
limbSj  but  the  body  of  Sefior  Hirsch,  enterprising  business 
man  from  Esmeralda,  hung  under  the  heavy  beam  perpen- 
dicular and  silent,  facing  the  colonel  awfully.  (Nostromo, 
p.  381.  This  makes  part  of  a  longer  passage  I  have  quoted 
in  another  chapter.) 

It  is  as  unassuming  as  it  is  trenchantJ  And  some- 
times he  will  achieve  the  result  by  a  single  word  as 
when,  in  The  Secret  Agent,  he  is  describing  that  quite 
worthless  person,  Comrade  Ossipon  : — 

Alexander  Ossipon,  anarchist,  nicknamed  the  Doctor, 
author  of  a  medical  fand  improper)  pamphlet,  late  lecturer 
on  the  social  aspects  of  hygiene  to  working  men's  clubs,  was 
free  from  the  trammels  of  conventional  morality.  (The 
Secret  Agent,  p.  422.) 

and  then  the  result  is  still  more  illuminating  if 
possible. 

Conrad,  I  repeat,  is  addicted  to  this  sort  of  ironical 
contrast,  and  occasionally  he  will  present  it  in  an  even 
milder  form  of  ironical  comment.  In  Lord  Jim,  for 
instance,  one  of  the  assessors  at  Jim's  examination 
sits  there  in  his  position  of  authority  and  tried  integrity 
as  though  thoroughly  bored  with  the  weakness  of 
humanity— but  Conrad  suddenly  pauses  to  explain 
how  Captain  Brierly  committed  suicide  a  few  week? 
later.  In  Under  Western  Eyes  there  is  Councillor 
MikuUn    of    the    secret    police    who    cross-examines 


168  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Razumov  with  a  terrifying  reserve  of  power  and 
influence — but  again,  Conrad  pauses  to  recount  how 
MikuUn,  himself,  fell  some  years  afterwards  into  the 
depths  of  suspicion  and  degradation.  Here  you  have 
two  commanding  men,  safe,  feared,  respected,  facing 
two  unhappy  wretches,  and  it  is  just  as  if  Conrad 
were  all  at  once  to  whisper  in  your  ear  "  Yes,  but 
wait  a  moment — I'll  show  you  something,"  and 
were  to  give  you  a  glimpse  into  the  mysterious  workings 
of  fate  and  of  men's  hearts,  "^his,  indeed,  is  the 
melancholy  side  of  Conrad's  irony — the  realisation 
not  only  that  life  is  obscure  and  fruitless  but  that 
people  are,  in  truth,  completely  ignorant  about  itJ 
As  he  says  in  "  The  Return  "  (talking  of  Alvan  Hervey 
and  his  wife)  : — 

They  skimmed  over  the  surface  of  life  hand  in  hand^  in  a 
pure  and  frosty  atmosphere — Hke  two  skilful  skaters  cutting 
figures  on  thick  ice  for  the  admiration  of  the  beholders,  and 
disdainfully  ignoring  the  hidden  stream,  the  stream  restless 
and  dark  ;  the  stream  of  life,  profound  and  unfrozen.  {Tales 
of  Unrest,  *'  The  Return,"  pp.  178-9.) 

It  is  a  remark  ironical  in  its  very  intensity. 

Something  of  this  blindness  may  be  noted  as  the 
ironical  background  to  Under  Western  Eyes.  Conrad's 
view  of  the  Genevan  ciicle  of  Russian  conspirators 
reminds  one  of  Tu^enev's  view  of  the  Baden-Baden 
circle  in  Smoke.  The  sardonic  spirit  in  both  wiiters 
hates  the  pretence  so  often  sunning  itself  in  the  shelter 
of  elevated  causes,  and  is  cynically  amused  at  the 
gullibility  of  enthusiasts.  *  Nevertheless  both  Tur- 
genev  and  Conrad  show  the  sincerest  admiration  for 
nobility  and  singleness  of  hearj-  I  need  not  quote 
from  Turgenev,  whose  work  is  so  widely  known,  and 
as  to  Conrad  I  will  merely  mention  that  there  is  no 
grander  figure  in   Under  Western  Eyes  than  Haldin 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     169 


and  no  meaner  figure  than  Peter  Ivanovitch.  Yet 
both,  ostensibly,  are  in  the  vanguard  of  the  same  cause. 
But  the  first  is  genuine,  whereas  the  second  draws 
his  sustenance  from  the  credulous  admiration  of 
sincere  fanatics.  This  unfounded  and  unseeing  faith 
is  a  weakness  from  which  no  states  of  society  have 
ever  been  immune.  The  last  page  of  Under  Western 
Eyes,  in  the  light  of  knowledge,  is  a  most  ironical 
footnote  upon  the  whole  subject.  -^-^^^ 

^  Conrad's  \melancholy  irony  oftea„reveals  itself  in      j 
dramatic  climax — it  might  be  called,  then,  the  irony  /  > 
of  pityTTit  is  at  the  moment  oThis  success  that  Jim  CT 
(Lord  Jim)  meets  his  death,  it  is  at  the  moment  of^ 
rehef  that    Kayerts    and    Carlier   ("  An  Outpost    of\ 
Progress  ")  break  down  completely,  it  is  at  the  moment 
of  safety  that  Charley  ("  The  Brute  ")  loses  his  beloved, 
it  is  at  the  moment  when  their  long  wait  is  all  but 
triumphantly    surmounted    that    Jasper    and    Freya 
("  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands  ")  are  cheated  of  the  very 
happiness  over  which  their  hands  are  closing.     I  need 
not  continue  such  instances  because,  naturally,  they 
must  always  abound  in  writers  as  dramatic  as  Conrad  ; 
but  I  may  point  out  that  they  do  show  conclusively 
how)Lurgent  in  his  mind  is  the  ever-present  idea  of 
tragic  fateD  1  The  worst  of  it  is  that,  in  the  irony  of 
climax  as  in  the  irony  of  symbolic  contrast,  there  is 
a  suggestion  of  coincidence  which  is  apt  to  leave  one 
uncomfortable  in  proportion  as  it  is  perfect^   To  deal 
in  such  thrilling  crises  is  to  play  with  fire — and  to  get 
singed  now  and  again. 

There  is  another  danger  about  irony  and  that  is  -, 
that,  in  the  words  of  a  writer  in  The  New  Age,  "  it  ends  < 
by  deceiving  its  author."     I  mention  this  here  not 
because   I   think  Conrad  has  fallen,   to  any  extent, 
into  this  mistake  (his  irony  is  usually  far  too  clear- 


170  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


sighted  and  humane  for  that)  but  because  it  is  so 
common  in  the  EngUsh  satirists  of  to-day.  The 
constant,  unreHeved,  and  often  pointless  irony  of 
such  men  as  Samuel  Butler  and  Hilaire  Belloc  be- 
comes a  weariness.  The  tables  are  turned  with  a 
vengeance  and  we  end  by  disliking  the  authors  more 
than  their  butts.  Irony  must  have  proportion  or  it 
loses  its  sting.  And  what  could  be  more  truly  ironic 
than  the  blindness  of  irony  itself  ? 

And  here  I  may  add  that,  for  the  critic  too,  the 
whole  subject  of  irony  is  a  dangerous  one.     In  every 
f  act  of  life  there  is  a  certain  ironic  significance,  and 
(unless  the  critic  is  very  careful  there  is  a  real  chance  of 
•his  losing  all  sense  of  proportion  in  judging  the  bounds 
^and   purposes   of  intentional   irony.     One  must   not 
overdo  it  and  yet,  with  a  novelist  like\Conrad  in  whom 
irony  has  such  distinct,  individual,  and  subtle  mani- 
festations,  one   must   lay  particular   stress  upon  it. 
I  For  the  English  mind  has,  I  think,  little  of  the  finesse 
]  of  irony  in  its  constitution  and  Kttle  of  the  bitterness 
)  or  even  the  melancholy  of  irony,  though,  assuredly, 
.  it  is  rich  in  ironical  resignation  and  revolt.     And  that, 
precisely,  is  not  Conrad's  type  of  irony.     You  will 
find  it   in  thoroughly  English  writers  like   Dickens 
and   Chesterton   (it   goes   frequently  with  bursts   of 
irritation),  but  you  will  not  find  it  in  a  Slav  writer 
such  as  Conrad.     To  Conrad  humour  is  not  a  guise 
for  resignation  (or  its  converse,  rebellion),  although 
his  humour  is  so  often  tinged  with  ironyT]   But  then 
it  has  no  ghilosophic  basis  and  is  ironic  without  ulterior 
J^i  motive.    jIn  a  nutshell,  Conrad's  humour  is  the  humour 
'     of   his   special   ironic   realism.?  When   Leonard,    the 
half-caste,  tells  Willems  [An  Outcast  of  the  Islands) 
that  he  must  not  be  brutal  to  him  because  it  is  "  un- 
becoming between  white  men "   there  is  something 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     171 

not  only  ridiculously  funny  in  the  scene  but  obviously 
ironical.     I  will  give  it  in  full : — 

*'  Do  not  be  brutal,  Mr  Willems/'  said  Leonard,  hurriedly. 
"  It  is  unbecoming  between  white  men  with  all  those  natives 
looking  on."  Leonard's  legs  trembled  very  much,  and  his 
voice  wavered  between  high  and  low  tones  without  any 
attempt  at  control  on  his  part.  "  Restrain  your  improper 
violence,"  he  went  on  mumbling  rapidly.  "  I  am  a  respectable 
man  of  very  good  family,  while  you  ...  it  is  regrettable 
.  .  .  they  all  say  so.  .  .  ."  {An  Outcast  of  the  Islands, 
P-  3I-) 

And,  again,  in  "  Typhoon,"  when  the  second  mate, 
who  had  lost  his  nerve  in  the  storm,  gets  the  sack 
at  Fu-Chau  and  meets  his  seedy  friend  on  shore, 
the  picture  of  the  two  men  is  not  only  amusing  in  the 
highest  degree  but  full  of  a  contemptuous  and  ironical 
undercurrent.     Let  me  quote  : — 

Before  she  had  been  quite  an  hour  at  rest,  a  meagre  little 
man,  with  a  red-tipped  nose  and  a  face  cast  in  an  angry 
mould,  landed  from  a  sampan  on  the  quay  of  the  Foreign 
Concession,  and  incontinently  turned  to  shake  his  fist  at  her. 

A  tall  individual,  with  legs  much  too  thin  for  a  rotund 
stomach,  and  with  watery  eyes,  strolled  up  and  remarked, 
''  Just  left  her— eh  ?     Quick  work." 

He  wore  a  soiled  suit  of  blue  flannel  with  a  pair  of  dirty 
cricketing  shoes  ;  a  dingy  grey  moustache  dropped  from  his 
lip,  and  daylight  could  be  seen  in  two  places  between  the 
rim  and  the  crown  of  his  hat. 

''  Hallo  !  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  asked  the  ex-second- 
mate  of  the  Nan-Shan,  shaking  hands  hurriedly. 

"  Standing  by  for  a  job— chance  worth  taking— get  a 
quiet  hint,"  explained  the  man  with  the  broken  hat,  in 
jerky,  apathetic  wheezes. 

The  second  shook  his  fist  again  at  the  Nan-Shan. 

''  There's  a  fellow  there  that  ain't  fit  to  have  the  command 
of  a  scow,"  he  declared,  quivering  with  passion,  while  the 
other  looked  about  listlessly. 


m  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


"  Is  there  ?  " 

But  he  caught  sight  on  the  quay  of  a  heavy  seaman's 
chest,  painted  brown  under  a  fringed  sailcloth  cover,  and 
lashed  with  new  manila  line.  He  eyed  it  with  awakened 
interest. 

"  I  would  talk  and  raise  trouble  if  it  wasn't  for  that  damned 
Siamese  flag.  Nobody  to  go  to — or  I  would  make  it  hot  for 
him.  The  fraud  !  Told  his  chief  engineer — that's  another 
fraud  for  you — I  had  lost  my  nerve.  The  greatest  lot  of 
ignorant  fools  that  ever  sailed  the  seas.  No  !  You  can't 
think.   ..." 

"  Got  your  money  all  right  ?  "  inquired  his  seedy  acquaint- 
ance suddenly. 

"  Yes.  Paid  me  off  on  board/'  raged  the  second  mate. 
'  Get  your  breakfast  on  shore/  says  he." 

"  Mean  skunk  !  "  commented  the  tall  man  vaguely,  and 
passed  his  tongue  on  his  lips.  "  What  about  having  a  drink 
of  some  sort  ?  " 

**  He  struck  me/'  hissed  the  second  mate. 

"  No  !  Struck  !  You  don't  say  ?  "  The  man  in  blue 
began  to  bustle  about  sympathetically.  "  Can't  possibly 
talk  here.  I  want  to  know  all  about  it.  Struck — eh  ?  Let's 
get  a  fellow  to  carry  your  chest.  I  know  a  quiet  place 
where  they  have  some  bottled  beer.   ..." 

Mr  Jukes,  who  had  been  scanning  the  shore  through  a 
pair  of  glasses,  informed  the  chief  engineer  afterwards  that 
"  our  late  second  mate  hasn't  been  long  in  finding  a  friend. 
A  chap  looking  uncommonly  like  a  bummer.  I  saw  them 
walk  away  together  from  the  quay."     {Typhoon,  "  Typhoon  "         ; 

p.  100-2.) 

[How  many  people,  I  wonder,  have  noticed  what  a 
marvellous  piece  of  art  this  conversation  is.  It  is 
one  of  the  m.ost  finished  things  of  its  kind  in  Conrad's 
works,  and,  as  a  finale  to  the  horrors  of  the  typhoon, 
tremendously  effective.  The  "  soft  spot  "  is  as  visible 
here  as  amongst  the  officers  on  board  the  Patna  {Lord 

•;  Conrad's  whole  sense  of  humour  is,  in  fact,  extra- 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     173 


ordinarily  interesting.  It  is  unique  in  a  sense  no  less 
absolute  than  is  the  humour  of  Dostoievsky.  It 
has  that  pathetic  and  realistic  bizarreness  wliich  one 
connects  with  the  Slavonic  spirit.  /  Think  of  all  those 
quaint  and  startled  stewards  that  flit  through  his 
tales,  through  such  tales,  for  instance,  as  "  Typhoon," 
"  The  Secret  Sharer,"  "  A  Smile  of  Fortune,"  Chance, 
and  so  forth  ;  or  think  of  a  figure  like  Captain  Mitchell 
{Nostromo),  sententiously  (and  quite  falsely)  imagining 
himself  the  centre  of  affairs,  or  of  poor,  deluded 
Feraud  in  "  The  Duel."  Or  just  take  a  passage  like 
the  following  : — 

The  old  major  of  the  battalion,  a  stupid,  suspicious  man, 
who  had  never  been  afloat  in  his  life,  distinguished  himself 
by  putting  out  suddenly  the  binnacle  light,  the  only  one 
allowed  on  board  for  the  necessities  of  navigation.  He 
could  not  understand  of  what  use  it  could  be  for  finding  the 
way.  To  the  vehement  protestations  of  the  ship's  captain, 
he  stamped  his  foot  and  tapped  the  handle  of  his  sword. 
"  Aha  !  I  have  unmasked  you,"  he  cried  triumphantly. 
"  You  are  tearing  your  hair  from  despair  at  my  acuteness. 
Am  I  a  child  to  believe  that  a  light  in  that  brass  box  can 
show  you  where  the  harbour  is  ?  I  am  an  old  soldier,  I  am. 
I  can  smell  a  traitor  a  league  off.  You  wanted  that  gleam 
to  betray  our  approach  to  your  friend  the  Englishman.  A 
thing  like  that  show  you  the  way  !  What  a  miserable  lie  ! 
Que  picardia  !  You  Sulaco  people  are  all  in  the  pay  of 
those  foreigners."     (Nostromo,  p.  243.) 

^But  I  will  not  give  further  examples  for,  after  all, 
\liumour  of  this  kind  is  only  on  the  fringe  of  irony. 
Conrad's  humour,  at  its  easiest,  has  the  keenness  of 
a  blade  without  its  deadly  suggestion.  It  is,  in  truth, 
simply  a  sense  of  humour  dyed,  instinctively,  with 
the  colour  of  Conrad's  unusual  and  always  slightly 
ironical  personality.  \ 

There  is  a  trace  of  Dickens  in  Conrad's  humour, 


174  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


but  a  mere  trace  and  nothing  more.  For  it  is  mingled 
with  a  much  rarer,  a  much  subtler  genius.  Perhaps 
actually  the  most  Dickens-like  character  in  his  books 
is  Flora  de  Barral's  manufacturer  cousin.  The 
passage  I  give  here  is  my  justification  for  this  state- 
ment : — 

He  gazed  contemptuously  round  the  prettily  decorated 
dining-room.  He  wrinkled  his  nose  in  a  puzzled  way  at  the 
dishes  offered  to  him  by  the  waiter  but  refused  none,  devour- 
ing the  food  with  a  great  appetite  and  drinking  ("  swilling  " 
Fyne  called  it)  gallons  of  ginger  beer,  which  was  procured  for 
him  (in  stone  bottles)  at  his  request.  The  difficulty  of 
keeping  up  a  conversation  with  that  being  exhausted  Mrs 
Fyne  herself,  who  had  come  to  the  table  armed  with  adaman- 
tine resolution.  The  only  memorable  thing  he  said  was  when, 
in  a  pause  of  gorging  himself ''^  with  these  French  dishes  " 
he  deliberately  let  his  eyes  roam  over  the  little  tables  occupied 
by  parties  of  diners,  and  remarked  that  his  wife  did  for  a 
moment  think  of  coming  down  v/ith  him,  but  that  he  was 
glad  she  didn't  do  so.  ''  She  wouldn't  have  been  at  all  happy 
seeing  all  this  alcohol  about.  Not  at  all  happy,"  he  declared 
weightily.     {Chance,  p.  120.) 

It  is  probable,  as  I  said  in  my  introductory  chapter, 
that  this  omnipresent  irony  is  one  of  the  reasons  for 
Conrad's  comparative  lack  of  popularity.^  Sophia 
Antonovna  in  Under  Western  Eyes  sums  it  up  per- 
fectly when  she  says  : — 

"  Remember,  Razumov,  that  women,  children,  and 
revolutionists  hate  irony,  which  is  the  negation  of  all  saving 
instincts,  of  all  faith,  of  all  devotion,  of  all  action."  {Under 
Western  Eyes,  p.  275.) 

I  seem  to  discern  a  double  irony  in  that  remark — 
as  though  Conrad  had  been  thinking  to  himself. 
"  That's  what  people  will  be  saying  of  me."  But 
no  doubt  it  is  a  purely  fantastic  notion  on  my  part. 

Because  irony  is  the  foe  of  fanaticism  and  of  the 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     175 


cs 


unruffled  certitude  of  the  idee  fixe  is,  one  may  suppose 
partly  why  Conrad  conceived  Under  Western  Ey 
and  The  Secret  Agent  (the  two  novels  about  extremists) 
as  ironical  entities — though,  as  I  stated  before,  it 
appears  to  be  more  an  artistic  than  a  philosophic 
device — for  only  in  such  a  spirit  could  the  gravity 
of  fanaticism  be  proportioned  to  its  actual  worth. 
'I^^But  the  great  thing  to  grasp  about  Conrad's  irony 
is  this  startling  fact  that,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  his 
irony  is  more  tragic  than  comic — that  is  to  say,  more 
Slavonic  than  French^  It  is  that  which  must  differen- 
tiate his  mind  for  ever  from  the  mind  of  such  men  as 
Anatole  France  or  Remy  de  Gourmont.  I  do  believe 
that\Jhe  reason  for  this  is  fundamentally  one  of 
realism.  Conrad's  grip  on  life  is  realistic  to  the  utter- 
most, and  consequently  his  irony  cannot  drown  his 
faith  in  actuality.  To  say  that  he  is  more  of  a  creator 
than  a  philosopher  is  only  to  say  that  he  is  concerned 
more  with  existence  than  with  theories  concerning  ifj 
Moreover  the  melancholy  of  his  irony  merges  into  a 
melancholy  that  is  not  ironic  at  all  except  in  a  kind 
of  a  cosmic  sense  which  can  hardly  enter  into  our 
calculations.  This  is  the  sort  of  irony  that  pervades 
a  book  like  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands,[the  irony  of 
disillusionment  and  of  vanished  hope.j^  I  sometimes 
think  that  the  last  page  or  two  of  that  strange  book 
are  the  very  epitome  of  his  ironic  melancholy — an 
irony  more  tragic  than  ironic.  The  quotation  is 
rather  long  but  I  will  give  it  here  because  it  represents 
my  meaning  so  perfectly  : — 

He  dozed  off.  Almayer  stood  by  the  balustrade  looking 
out  at  the  bluish  sheen  of  the  moonlit  night.  The  forests, 
unchanged  and  sombre,  seemed  to  hang  o\'er  the  water, 
listening  to  the  unceasing  whisper  of  the  great  river  ;  and 
above  their  dark  wall  the  hill  on  which  Lingard  had  buried 


176  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

the  body  of  his  late  prisoner  rose  in  a  black,  rounded  mass, 
upon  the  silver  paleness  of  the  sky.  Almayer  looked  for  a 
long  time  at  the  clean-cut  outline  of  the  summit,  as  if  trying 
to  make  out  through  darkness  and  distance  the  shape  of 
that  expensive  tombstone.  When  he  turned  round  at  last 
he  saw  his  guest  sleeping,  his  arms  on  the  table,  his  head  on 
his  arms. 

"  Now,  look  here  !  "  he  shouted,  slapping  the  table  with 
the  palm  of  his  hand. 

The  naturalist  woke  up,  and  sat  all  in  a  heap,  staring 
owlishly. 

"  Here  ! "  went  on  Almayer,  speaking  very  loud  and 
thumping  the  table,  "  I  want  to  know.  You,  who  say  you 
have  read  all  the  books,  just  tell  me  .  .  .  why  such  damned 
things  are  ever  born.  Here  I  am  !  Done  harm  to  nobody, 
lived  an  honest  life  .  .  .  and  a  scoundrel  like  that  is  born  in 
Rotterdam  or  some  such  damn'd  place  at  the  other  end  of 
the  world  somewhere,  travels  out  here,  robs  his  employer, 
runs  away  from  his  wife,  and  ruins  me  and  my  Nina — he 
ruined  me,  I  tell  you — and  gets  himself  shot  at  last  by  a 
poor  miserable  savage,  that  knows  nothing  at  all  about  him 
really.  Where's  the  sense  of  all  this  ?  Where's  your 
Providence  ?  Where's  the  good  for  anybody  in  all  this  ? 
The  world's  a  swindle  !  A  swindle  !  Why  should  I  suffer  ? 
What  have  I  done  to  be  treated  so  .?  " 

He  howled  out  his  string  of  questions,  and  suddenly  became 
silent.  The  man  who  ought  to  have  been  a  professor  made 
a  tremendous  effort  to  articulate  distinctly — 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't — don't  you  see  that  the  ba-bare 
fac — the  fact  of  your  existence  is  off — ■"  offensive.  .  .  .  I — I 
like  you — like.   .   .   ." 

He  fell  forward  on  the  table,  and  ended  his  remarks  by  an 
unexpected  and  prolonged  snore. 

Almayer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  back  to  the 
balustrade.  He  drank  his  own  trade  gin  very  seldom,  but, 
when  he  did,  a  ridiculously  small  quantity  of  the  stuff  could 
induce  him  to  assume  a  rebellious  attitude  towards  the 
scheme  of  the  universe.  And  now,  throwing  his  body  over 
the  rail,  he  shouted  impudently  into  the  night,  turning  his 
face  towards  that  far-off  and  invisible  slab  of  imported  granite 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     177 


upon  which  Lingard  had  thought  fit  to  record  God's  mercy 
and  Willem's  escape. 

"  Father  was  wrong — wrong  !  "  he  yelled.  "  I  want 
you  to  smart  for  it.  You  must  smart  for  it  !  Where  are 
you,  Willems  ?  Hey  ?  .  .  .  Hey  ?  .  .  .  Where  there  is 
no  mercy  for  you — I  hope  !  " 

"  Hope,"  repeated  in  a  whispering  echo  the  startled 
forests,  the  river  and  the  hills  ;  but  Almayer,  who  stood 
waiting  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  a  smile  of  tipsy 
attention  on  his  lips,  heard  no  other  answer.  {An  Outcast 
of  the  Islands,  p.  390-1.) 

But  to  hark  back ,j. Conrad's  irony  is  French  in  its 
clear-headed  perception  of  motive.  He  is  not  to  be 
deluded  by  grandiloquent  phrases./  And  there  is 
something  tragically  comic  in  the  way  he  makes  his 
exploited  people  (exploited  in  the  name  of  progress) 
realise  the  utter  vileness  of  the  exploiters  quite  natur- 
ally, as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  course.  In  "  An 
Outpost  of  Progress "  it  is  Makola,  the  devil-wor- 
shipping native,  who  understands  the  two  white  agents 
actually  better  than  they  understand  themselves. 
Behind  their  backs  he  succeeds  in  exchanging  their 
useless  station  men  for  some  admirable  tusks.  The 
knowledge  comes  to  their  ears  as  follows  : — 

He  moved  towards  the  store.  Kayerts  followed  him 
mechanically,  thinking  about  the  incredible  desertion  of 
the  men.  On  the  ground  before  the  door  of  the  fetish  lay 
six  splendid  tusks. 

"  What  did  you  give  for  it  ?  "  asked  Kayerts,  after  sur- 
veying the  lot  with  satisfaction. 

"No  regular  trade,"  said  Makola.  "They  brought  the 
ivory  and  gave  it  to  me.  I  told  them  to  take  what  they 
most  wanted  in  the  station.  It  is  a  beautiful  lot.  No 
station  can  show  such  tusks.  Those  traders  wanted  carriers 
badly,  and  our  men  were  no  good  here.  No  trade,  no  entry 
in  books  ;    all  correct." 

Kayerts    nearly    burst    with    indignation.     "  Why  ! "    he 

M 


178  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

shouted,  "  I  believe  you  have  sold  our  men  for  these  tusks  !  " 
Makola  stood  impassive  and  silent.  "  I — I — will — I —  " 
stuttered  Kayerts.     "  You  fiend  !  "  he  yelled  out. 

*'  I  did  the  best  for  you  and  the  Company,"  said  Makola 
imperturbably.  "  Why  you  shout  so  much  ?  Look  at 
this  tusk." 

"  I  dismiss  you  !  I  will  report  you — I  won't  look  at  the 
tusk.  I  forbid  you  to  touch  them.  I  order  you  to  throw 
them  into  the  river.    You — ^you  !  " 

"  You  very  red,  Mr  Kayerts.  If  you  are  so  irritable  in 
the  sun,  you  will  get  fever  and  die — like  the  first  chief !  " 
pronounced  Makola  impressively.  {Tales  of  Unrest,  "  An 
Outpost  of  Progress,"  pp.  150-1.)  ' 

But  the  result  may  be  forseen — a  beautiful  resig- 
nation to  evil  (and  profitable)  fortune.  There  is 
something  exquisitely  and  unconsciously  sardonic 
in  Makola's  treatment  of  the  white  men's  feelings. 
He  has  gauged  these  tv^o  men,  has  reckoned  the 
value  of  their  sentimentalism  against  the  value 
of  their  greed,  not  through  any  profound  powers 
of  psychology  but  simply  through  his  ordinary  know- 
ledge of  the  white  men  who  have  come  to  his 
country.  That  was  what  the  blessings  of  civilisa- 
tion meant  to  his  intelligence  !  Could  any  fact  be 
more  withering  ? 

And  remember  what  Conrad  says  of  the  old  l^alay 
Sarang  in  "  The  End  of  the  Tether  "  :— 

He  was  certain  of  his  facts— but  such  a  certitude  counted 
for  little  against  the  doubt  what  answer  would  be  pleasing^ 
{Youth,  "  The  End  of  the  Tether,"  p.  252.) 

But,  perhaps,  the  most  sardonic  remark  in  the  whole 
of  Conrad's  works  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  black 
servant  in  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  who  has  to  announce 
the  death  of  Mr  Kurtz,  that  great  apostle  of  progress 
and  enlightenment : — 


IRONY  AND  SARDONIC  HUMOUR     179 


Suddenly  the  manager's  boy  put  his  insolent  black  head 
in  the  doorway,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  scathing  contempt— 

"  Mistah   Kurtz— he   dead."    (Youth,   "  Heart  of   Dark-    ' 
ness,"  p.  169.) 

There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  after  that.  It  is  \ 
the  last  word  of  disillusionment,  as  surely  the  last  !\ 
word  as  is  the  end  oi  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Conrad's  prose 

The  thought  of  Conrad's  style  suggests  at  once  a 
very  curious  speculation — how  does  a  Pole  come  to 
write  English  of  this  nature  ?  Of  course,  there  is 
no  real  answer ;  but  the  fact  of  it  is,  after  all, 
the  most  astonishing  thing  about  Conrad's  prose. 
And  yet,  in  a  sense,  the  very  correctness  of  his  prose 
(for,  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional  tiny  gram- 
matical error  it  is  correct)  militates  against  the  recog- 
nition people  yield  to  any  extraordinary  tour  de 
force.  Yoshio  Markino's  quaint  English  enraptures 
the  critics,  but  you  do  not  hear  loud  pseans  of  praise 
because  Conrad's  English  is  not  quaint.  The  reason 
is  simplyj:his,  that  Markino  is  considered  a  foreigner 
whereas  Conrad  is  considered  an  Englishman.  It 
is  a  compliment  paid  to  perfection. 

All  the  same,  and  quite  outside  the  subject  of 
technical  proficiency,  there  is  a  foreign  element  in 
the  spirit  and  substance  of  Conrad's  prose  which  does 
require  analysis.  That  strange,  exotic  manner  of 
regarding  our  language  which  is  so  evident  in  his 
earlier  books  is  an  instance.  ]  His  treatment  of  our 
tongue  is  one  of  the  most  exciting  adventures  in  the 
long  annals  of  English  literature.  And  it  is  exciting 
because  of  its  profound  originality.  His  music  is 
not  the  mere  enlargement  of  older  English  strains, 
it  is  a  new  music  altogether — the  romantic,  mysterious, 
and  thrilling  music  of  another   race.        There  is  a 

ISO 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  181 


Latin,  harp-like  rhythm  about  Conrad's  prose  which 
is  intensely  individual.  Few  people,  I  think,  have 
realised  the  fundamental  difference  between  Conrad's 
prose  and  all  the  prose  of  the  English  schools.  For 
^  is  Conrad's  mastery  of  the  details  of  our  language 
that  hides  from  us  the  deep  originality  of  his  method. 
But,  as  I  say,  all  this  is  mucji  easier  to  note  in  his 
earlier  than  in  his  later  work.</A  revolutionary  change 
has  come  over  Conrad's  prose — a  change  just  visible 
in  the  "  Amy  Foster  "  of  Typhoon,  and  in  full  force 
from  Under  Western  Eyes  onward — which,  like  all 
revolutions,  alters  ih^  face  while  keeping  the  heart 
mainly  untouched:  This  revolution  (or,  if  you  like, 
evolution)  has  smoothed  away  the  cadence,  has 
concentrated  the  manner,  has  toned  down  the  style 
of  Conrad's  former  exuberance^  At  first  glance  the 
later  and  the  earlier  Conrad  appear  two  totally  different 
men.  The  murky  splendour  of  the  one  has  given 
way  to  the  subtle  and  elastic  suavity  of  the  other.  X 
Perhaps  I  can  explain  the  difference  better  by  a  simile. 
It  is  as  though  Conrad's  earlier  w'ork  were  a  free 
swinging  wire,  with  a  glorious  sweep  and  a  deep 
booming  note,  and  his  later  work,  were  the  same  wire, 
tightened  up,  and  vibrating  and  humming  with  a 
tense,  swift,  and  almost  invisible  actionVlhere  is  \ 
no  doubt  that  Conrad's  earlier  prose  is  more  immedi- 
ately stimulating — and,  indeed,  there  are  individual 
passages  in  it  which  actually  are  his  finest  things — 
but  his  later  prose  is  undoubtedly  a  subtler  achieve- 
ment. It  is  fuller  of  nervous,  concentrated  energy/ 
It  is  like  breathing  the  rare  atmosphere  of  the 
heights  after  v/alking  the  wooded  valleys  below. 
\tlis  earlier  prose  is  sometimes  uncertain,  sometimes 
exaggerated,  but  his  later  prose  has  the  uniform 
-temper  of  absolute  mastery^And  it  would  be  interest- 


182  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


ing  to  know  whether  this  change  is  not  partly  due  to 
.  a  more  accurate  conception  of  English.  Of  course,'*" 
Wlere  are  other  influences  obviously  at  work  ;  but 
whether  this  also  may  not  count  for  something  is  the 
question.  From  its  very  nature  it  must  be  left  un- 
answered, but  internal  evidence  is  in  its  favour. 
But  we  must  remember,  too,  that  his  early  work  was 
tinged  in  a  familiar  sense  by  a  recent  association  with 
the  tropics  and  the  sea,  and  that  as  the  years  gradually 
divide  the  present  from  the  past  such  influence  must 
necessarily  be  less  strong.  And  then,  again,  is  it  not 
possible  that  Conrad  is  deliberately  setting  himself 
to  become,  as  it  were,  more  purely  literary,  more 
impersonal  ?  For  in  Conrad  the  artist  is  more  and 
more  predominant.  But,  indeed,  the  change  is 
perhaps  a  natural  development  that  could  have  been 
foretold  from  the  beginning — a  development  inherent 
in  the  nature  of  the  work.  I  wonder.  The  only 
certain  thing  is  that  there  is  a  change, 
f^^he  more  obvious  idiosyncracies  of  Conrad's  style 
appear,  as  one  would  expect,  in  his  early  work.  Books 
like  Tales  of  Unrest  and  Youth  bristle  with  what  is 
generally  considered  the  typical  Conradesque  prose. 
The  triolets  of  sound  by  which  his  most  gorgeous 
effects  are  secured,  the  repetition  of  formidable  words 
which  instil  the  very  breath  of  tropical  forests  in  our 
lungs,  the  langorous  roll  of  his  sentences  suggesting 

\the  motion  of  sluggish  and  steamy  rivers,   abound 
everywhere. 

■^  Yes,  I  it  is  very  rich,  this  early  style  of  Conrad's. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  know  to  what  extent  his 
long  association  with  the  sea  has  helped  to  create  not 
only  its  spirit  in  his  books,  but  its  very  beats  within 
j  the  swell  of  his  periods.  For,  at  its  typical,  that 
is  what  it  is  like — a  monotonous  and  golden  rhythm. 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  183 


a  sonorous  ebb  and  flow^*,  He  is  a  magician  in  the  use 
of  those  dangerous  things — adjectives.  Just  occasion- 
ally, as  I  say,  this  does  result  in  a  feeling  of  exaggera- 
tion, as  in  "  Heart  of  Darkness  "  and  "  The  Return," 
but  generally  it  is  extremely  eloquent  and  has  thei 
effect  of  a  symphony.  J 

Moreover  his  language  is  musical  in  another  sense. 
As  in  a  composition  the  same  theme  will  occur  every 
now  and  again,  so  it  is  at  times  with  his  stories,  in 
which  he  will  repeat  at  intervals  the  same  sentence 
like  a  slow  refrain.  The  repetition  of  such  a  clause 
as  this  out  of  "  The  Return  "  produces  almost  the 
illusion  of  sound  : — 

The  secret  of  hearts^  too  terrible  for  the  timid  eyes  of  men, 
shall  return,  veiled  for  ever,  to  the  Inscrutable  Creator  of 
good  and  evil,  to  the  Master  of  doubts  and  impulses.  (Tales 
of  Unrest,  "  The  Return,"  pp.  268  and  (slightly  different) 
254.) 

This  is  just  one  instance.  '^y 

At  its  best  this  early  style  of  Conrad's  is  unmatched 
for  the  sheer  magnificence  of  its  achievement.  The 
false  note  dies  away  before  the  efforts  of  a  glowing 
and  romantic  imagination.  It  is  in  descriptions  of 
tropical  nights  and  primeval  forests,  of  nature  vast 
and  untamed,  that  the  prose  of  Conrad  rises  to  supreme 
heights.  For  it  is  endowed  not  alone  with  the  poetry 
of  beautiful  language  but  with  a  sort  of  melancholy 
and  ironic  philosophy  which  is  strangely  moving.  I 
cannot  do  better  than  give  a  few  examples.  Took 
at  this  : — 

The  far-off  blackness  ahead  of  the  ship  was  like  another 
night  seen  through  the  starry  night  of  the  earth— the  sUir- 
less  night  of  the  immensities  beyond  the  created  universe, 
revealed   in  its   appalling  stillness  through  a  low  fissure 


184  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


in  the  glittering  sphere  of  which  the  earth  is  the  kernel. 
{Typhoon,  "  Typhoon/'  p.  32.) 

Or  at  this  :— 

A  multitude  of  stars  coming  out  into  the  clear  night 
peopled  the  emptiness  of  the  sky.  They  glittered,  as  if  alive 
above  the  sea  ;  they  surrounded  the  running  ship  on  all 
sides ;  more  intense  than  the  eyes  of  a  staring  crowd,  and 
as  inscrutable  as  the  souls  of  men.  {The  Nigger  of  the 
"  Narcissus,"  p.  41.) 

Or  at  this  : — 

She  dropped  her  head,  and  as  if  her  ears  had  been  opened 
to  the  voices  of  the  world,  she  heard  beyond  the  rampart  of 
sea  wall  the  swell  of  yesterday's  gale  breaking  on  the  beach 
with  monotonous  and  solemn  vibrations,  as  if  all  the  earth 
had  been  a  tolling  bell.     {Typhoon,  "  To-morrow,"  p.  294.) 

Or  at  this:— 

I  A  murmur  powerful  and  gentle^  a  murmur  vast  and  faint,;) 
the  m.urrnur  of  trembling  leaves,  of  stirring  boughs,  ran 
through  the  tangled  depths  of  the  forests,  ran  over  the 
starry  smoothness  of  the  lagoon,  and  the  water  between  the 
piles  lapped  the  slimy  timber  once  with  a  sudden  splash.  A 
breath  of  warm  air  touched  the  two  men's  faces  and  passed 
on  with  a  mournful  sound-{-a  breath  loud  and  short  like  an 
uneasy  sigh  of  the  dreaming  earth.X  {Tales  of  Unrest,  "  The 
Lagoon,"  p.  290.)  J 

Or  at  this  :— 


1^ 


She  was  headed  between  two  small  islets,  crossed  obliquely 
the  anchoring-ground  of  sailing-ships,  swung  through -half 
a  circle  in  the  shadow  of  a  hill,  then  ranged  close  to  a  ledge 
of  foaming  reefs.  The  Arab,  standing  up  aft,  recited  aloud 
the  prayer  of  travellers  by  sea.  He  invoked  the  favour  of 
the  Most  High  upon  that  journey,  implored  His  blessing  on 
men's  toil  and  on  the  secret  purposes  of  their  hearts  ;  the 
steamer  pounded  in  the  dusk  the  calm  water  of  the  Strait ; 
and  far  astern  of  the  pilgrim  ship  a  screw-pile  lighthouse, 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  185 


planted  by  unbelievers  on  a  treacherous  shoal,  seemed  to 
wink  at  her  its  eye  of  flame,  ^  if  in  derision  of  her  errand  of 
faith.     {Lord  Jim,  pp.  14-15/; 

Of  course,  prose  like  this  is  open  to  many  objections 
and  could  only  be  used  safely  by  a  very  great  master. 
But  where  it  is  successful  it  is  tremendous.  That  is 
my  point.  To  write  such  descriptions  is  like  creating 
a  new  use  for  language,  like  giving  it  the  attributes 
of  several  senses.  Perhaps  it  is  not  strictly  proper, 
but  that  does  not  matter  as  long  as  the  result  is  what 
it  is.  Where  one  does  feel  the  strain  of  such  a  style 
is  in  its  ordinary  application  to  the  purposes  of  a 
whole  book  and  also  in  its  tendency  towards  exaggera- 
tion and  portentousness  not  only  in  itself  but  in 
the  scenes  and  emotions  it  depicts.  Conrad's  later 
style  is,  in  the  main,  a  far  more  supple  instrument. 
For  it  conceals  a  spirit  of  irony  to  whom  the  tragic 
sweep  of  his  early  sentences  would  appear  forbidding. 
And  it  is  wonderful  to  note  how,  in  his  descriptions  of 
scenery,  the  darkness  has  slowly  faded  into  hght. 
The  heavy  gloom  of  the  descriptions  in  "  Heart  of 
Darkness  ''  has  yielded  to  the  tender  fancy  of  the 
descriptions  in  "  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands."  With 
the  changing  of  the  point  of  view  the  prose  has  become 
more  delicate,  more  sustained,  and  more  finely  tuned. 

But  I  admit  that  in  making  a  comparison  one  tends 
to  overdo  it  at  either  end.  It  is  not  at  all  my  opinion 
that  Conrad's  earher  prose  is  all  of  one  genre  or  that 
it  is  not  constantly  altering  in  some  way  or  other.  At 
its  choicest,  which  is  in  the  recreation  of  lost  illusions  or 
vanished  pictures,  it  has  the  flexibility  of  his  latest  work 
joined  to  the  soft  richness  of  his  first  period.  1  But  it  is 
always  somewhat  monotonous  by  reason  of  the  atmo- 
sphere which  surrounds  it.  Conrad's  prose  has  never 
been  more  imaginatively  beautiful  than  in  such  stories 


186  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


as  "  Youth,"  and  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus/'  but 
the  shy  notes  of  its  beauty  are  drov/ned  in  the  glamour 
and  fragrance  of  the  scene.  That  is  why  so  many 
people  fail  to  realise  the  sensitiveness  of  Conrad's 
early  work  while  they  do  realise  all  the  magic  of  its 
colour.  But  it  is  true  that  the  general  impression 
is  one  of  overpowering  imagery  and  wealth  of  language." 
His  later  work  is  quite  different  in  its  broad  effect. 
And  we  begin  to  feel  this  difference  in  books  that, 
properly  speaking,  form  a  middle  period — Nostromo 
and  The  Secret  Agent.  The  prose,  in  particular,  in 
which  Nostromo  is  written  is  almost  perfect.  Beautiful 
and  full  of  nuance,  it  is  not  the  ironic  prose  of  Under 
Western  Eyes  any  more  than  it  is  the  purely  romantic 
prose  of  Tales  of  Unrest.  In  fact,  its  prose  is  the  least 
self-conscious  in  Conrad.  It  is  designed  to  create,  with 
potent  veritability,  the  canvas  of  a  huge  panorama  ; 
and  it  hardly  falters  in  its  stride.  It  is  in  Nostromo 
that  the  originality  of  Conrad's  style  appears  most 
unique  and  most  unapproachable.  For  it  has  neither 
the  mannerism  of  the  earlier  books  nor  the  attitude 
of  the  later  ones.  No,  it  is  like  a  river  flowing  calmly, 
flowing  assuredly  into  all  the  complicated  interstices 
of  the  land.  Let  me  give  two  quotations  to  represent 
my  meaning  : — 

At  night  the  body  of  the  clouds  advancing  higher  up  the 
sky  smothers  the  whole  quiet  gulf  below  with  an  impenetrable 
darkness,  in  which  the  sound  of  the  falling  showers  can  be 
heard  beginning  and  ceasing  abruptly — now  here,  now  there. 
Indeed,  these  cloudy  nights  are  proverbial  with  the  seamen 
along  the  whole  west  coast  of  a  great  continent.  Sky,  land, 
and  sea  disappear  together  out  of  the  world  when  the  Placido 
— as  the  saying  is — ^goes  to  sleep  under  its  black  poncho. 
The  few  stars  left  below  the  seaward  frown  of  the  vault 
shine  feebly  as  into  the  mouth  of  a  black  cavern.  In  its 
vastness  your  ship  floats  unseen  under  your  feet,  her  sails 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  187 


flutter  invisible  above  your  head.  The  eye  of  God  Himself 
—they  add  with  grim  profanity— could  not  find  out  what 
work  a  man's  hand  is  doing  in  there  ;  and  you  would  be  free 
to  call  the  devil  to  your  aid  with  impunity  if  even  his  malice 
were  not  defeated  by  such  a  blind  darkness.    (Nostromo,  p.  4.) 

Tints  of  purple,  gold;,  and  crimson  were  mirrored  in  the 
clear  water  of  the  harbour.  A  long  tongue  of  land,  straight 
as  a  wall,  with  the  grass-grown  ruins  of  the  fort  making  a 
sort  of  rounded  green  mound,  plainly  visible  from  the  inner 
shore,  closed  its  circuit ;  and  beyond  the  Placid  Gulf  repeated 
those  splendours  of  colouring  on  a  greater  scale  with  a  more 
sombre  magnificence.  The  great  mass  of  cloud  filling  the 
head  of  the  gulf  had  long  red  smears  amongst  its  convoluted 
folds  of  grey  and  black,  as  of  a  floating  mantle  stained  with 
blood.  The  three  Isabels,  overshadowed  and  clear  cut  in  a 
great  smoothness  confounding  the  sea  and  sky,  appeared 
suspended,  purple-black,  in  the  air.  The  little  wavelets 
seemed  to  be  tossing  tiny  red  sparks  upon  the  sandy  beaches. 
The  glassy  bands  of  water  along  the  horizon  gave  out  a  fiery 
red  glow,  as  if  fire  and  water  had  been  mingled  together  in 
the  vast  bed  of  the  ocean. 

At  last  the  conflagration  of  sea  and  sky,  lying  embraced 
and  asleep  in  a  flaming  contact  upon  the  edge  of  the  world, 
went  out.  The  red  sparks  in  the  water  vanished  together 
with  the  stains  of  blood  in  the  black  mantle  draping  the 
sombre  head  of  the  Placid  Gulf ;  and  a  sudden  breeze  sprang 
up  and  died  out  after  rustling  heavily  the  growth  of  bushes 
on  the  ruined  earthwork  of  the  fort.     (Nostromo,  pp.  346-7.) 

Indeed,  the  influences  which  have  helped  to  the 
formation  of  Conrad's  style  are  few  enough  altogether. 
Tnis  work  is  not  in  the  least  like  that  of  the  Russians 
(where  one  might  look  for  affinities),  and  though  it 
has  points  of  resemblance  to  that  of  such  Frenchmen 
as  Flaubert  and  Maupassant,  it  is  more  in  relation  to 
the  spirit  than  to  the  actual  writing.  There  is,  I 
think,  Uttle  to  be  gained  from  comparing  Conrad's 
prose  to  that  of  other  people  (his  romantic  use  of 
language  and,  later,  his  ironical  use  of  language— and 


188  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

that  language  a  foreign  language — has  given  his  prose 
a  totally  new  significance),  though  I  would  except  from 
that  the  earlier  part  of  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus," 
which  does  seem  to  me  to  show  definitely  the 
influence  of  Flaubert.  The  sailors  in  the  forecastle 
of  the  Narcissus  are  filled  in  with  a  similar  touch  to 
the  barbarians  in  the  garden  of  Hamilcar  at  the 
beginning  of  Salammbo.  These  sharp  little  sentences 
remind  one  exactly  of  Flaubert  in  a  certain  mood. 
(To  prove  that  this  is  not  mere  fancy  on  m.y  part 
I  will  mention  here  that  I  made  this  very  criticism 
in  an  article  I  wrote  on  Conrad  in  Rhythm,  November 
1912,  and  that  Conrad  then  informed  me  that  just 
before  writing  The  Nigger  of  the  "Narcissus  "  he  had 
finished  reading  Salammbo.)  And,  moreover,  it  is 
from  Flaubert  that  Conrad  has  gained  his  knowledge 
of  managing  a  crowd.  Indeed,  considering  how 
much  sympathy  there  is  between  Conrad's  mind  and 
Flaubert's  mind  (both  so  romantic,  pessimistic,  and 
sardonic)  and  considering  how  truly  Conrad  admires 
Flaubert  (see  Some  Reminiscences),  and  considering 
that  almost  the  only  obvious  resemblance  in  Conrad's 
prose  is  to  the  prose  of  Flaubert,  it  is  not  very  far 
fetched  to  say  that  the  influence  of  Flaubert  is  the 
strongest  in  Conrad.  Not  that  Conrad's  prose,  on 
the  whole,  is  at  all  like  Flaubert's,  but  that  their  aims 
are,  I  do  think,  very  much  alike  in  their  general 
tendency^ 
"^Conrad's  early  prose  is,  of  course,  easier  to  quote 
from  and  easier  to  fix  in  the  memory  than  his  later 
prose.  And  that  is,  partly  because  its  romantic 
quality  is  always  tending  towards  the  purple  patch, 
partly  because  it  is  full  of  striking  mannerisms,  partly 
because  its  rhythm  is  more  transparently  musical,  and 
partly  because  its  appeal  is  altogether  more  to  the 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  189 


emotions  than  is  the  close-knit  fabric  of  his  later  style.  [ 
I  have  no  doubt  that  in  the  various  chapters  of  this 
book  the  majority  of  the  quotations  are  from  the 
earlier  works.  I  regret  it,  because  it  does  form  a 
wrong  impression,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  If  one  is  to 
give  quotations  from  Conrad  (and  I  am  sure  that  one 
must  give  quotations  if  one  writes  on  Conrad) ,  one  has 
to  choose  the  most  suitable.  And  the  whole  method, 
the  whole  aim  of  the  later  style  is  against  that  tempta- 
tion to  be  outstanding  in  patches.  The  sentences  in 
such  books  as  Under  Western  Eyes  or  Chance  are  too 
much  part  of  the  whole  body  to  bear  removal  from 
their  context.  When  I  do  quote  from  these  late 
books  I  nearly  always  choose  paragraphs  that  show, 
at  least,  the  influence  of  the  early  ones.  But  the 
student  of  Conrad  will  understand  that  that  is  a  form 
of  praise — that  Conrad's  later  prose  reveals  itself, 
in  all  its  subtle  beauty,  only  to  the  careful  and  the 
imaginative  and  mainly  in  relation  to  the  whole  book.; 
However,  as  I  have  given  quotations  here  from  his 
early  and  middle  periods,  I  will  give  one  quotation 
from  his  latest.  I  will  not  give  a  description,  for  his 
descriptions,  even  though  they  do  differ  very  much, 
all  tend  to  be  romantic,  but  I  will  give  a  conversation 
— the  beginning  of  the  first  conversation  between  the 
Captain  and  the  impure  Jacobus  in  "  A  Smile  of 
Fortune  "  : — 

By  half-past  seven  in  the  morning,  the  ship  being  then 
inside  the  harbour  at  last  and  moored  within  a  long  stone 's- 
throw  from  the  quay,  my  stock  of  philosophy  was  nearly 
exhausted.  I  was  dressing  hurriedly  in  my  cabin  when  the 
steward  came  tripping  in  with  a  morning  suit  over  his  arm. 
Hungry,  tired,  and  depressed,  with  my  head  engaged 
inside  a  white  shirt  irritatingly  stuck  together  by  too  much 
starch,  I  desired  him  peevishly  to  "  heave  round  witli  Unit 
breakfast."     I  wanted  to  get  ashore  as  soon  as  possible. 


190  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


"  Yes,  Sir.  Ready  at  eight,  Sir.  There's  a  gentleman 
from  the  shore  waiting  to  speak  to  you,  Sir." 

This  statement  was  curiously  slurred  over.  I  dragged 
the  shirt  violently  over  my  head  and  emerged  staring. 

''  So  early  !  "  I  cried."  "  Who's  he  ?  What  does  he 
want  ?  " 

On  coming  in  from  the  sea  one  has  to  pick  up  the  con- 
ditions of  an  utterly  unrelated  existence.  Every  little  event 
at  first  has  the  peculiar  emphasis  of  novelty.  I  was  greatly 
surprised  by  that  early  caller ;  but  there  was  no  reason  for 
my  steward  to  look  so  particularly  foolish. 

*'  Didn't  you  ask  for  the  name  ?  "  I  inquired  in  a  stern 
tone. 

"  His  name's  Jacobus,  I  believe,"  he  mumbled  shame- 
facedly. 

"  Mr  Jacobus  !  "  I  exclaimed  loudly,  more  surprised  than 
ever,  but  with  a  total  change  of  feeling.  "  Why  couldn't 
you  say  so  at  once  ?  " 

But  the  fellow  had  scuttled  out  of  my  room.  Through 
the  momentarily  opened  door  I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  tall, 
stout  man  standing  in  the  cuddy  by  the  table  on  which  the 
cloth  was  already  laid  ;  a  "  harbour  "  table-cloth,  stainless 
and  dazzling  white.     So  far  good. 

I  shouted  courteously  through  the  closed  door,  that  I 
was  dressing  and  would  be  with  him  in  a  moment.  In  return 
the  assurance  that  there  was  no  hurry  reached  me  in  the 
visitor's  deep,  quiet  undertone.  His  time  was  my  own.  He 
dared  say  I  would  give  him  a  cup  of  coffee  presently. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  a  poor  breakfast,"  I  cried 
apologetically.  "  We  have  been  sixty-one  days  at  sea,  you 
know." 

A  quiet  little  laugh,  with  a  "  That'll  be  all  right  Captain," 
was  his  answer.  All  this,  words,  intonation,  the  glimpsed 
attitude  of  the  man  in  the  cuddy,  had  an  unexpected  char- 
acter, a  something  friendly  in  it — propitiatory.  And^my 
surprise  was  not  diminished  thereby.  What  did  this  call 
mean  ?  Was  it  the  sign  of  some  dark  design  against  my 
commercial  innocence  ? 

While  we  were  taking  our  seats  round  the  table  some 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  191 


disconnected  words  of  an  altercation  going  on  in  the  com- 
panionway  reached  my  ear.  A  stranger  apparently  wanted 
to  come  down  to  interview  me,  and  the  steward  was'opposing 
him. 

"  You  can't  see  him." 

"  Why  can't  I  ?  " 

"  The  Captain  is  at  breakfast,  I  tell  you.  He'll  be  going 
on  shore  presently,  and  you  can  speak  to  him  on  deck." 

"  That's  not  fair.    You  let " 

"  I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have.  Everybody  ought  to  have  the  same 
chance.    You  let  that  fellow " 

The  rest  I  lost.  The  person  having  been  repulsed  suc- 
cessfully, the  steward  came  down.  I  can't  say  he  looked 
flushed — he  was  a  mulatto —  but  he  looked  flustered.  After 
putting  the  dishes  on  the  table  he  remained  by  the  sideboard 
with  that  lackadaisical  air  of  indifference  he  used  to  assume 
when  he  had  done  something  too  clever  by  half  and  was 
afraid  of  getting  into  a  scrape  over  it.  The  contemptuous 
expression  of  Mr  Burns's  face  as  he  looked  from  him  to  me 
was  really  extraordinary.  I  couldn't  imagine  what  new  bee 
had  stung  the  mate  now. 

The  Captain  being  silent,  nobody  else  cared  to  speak, 
as  is  the  way  in  ships.  And  I  was  saying  nothing  simply 
because  I  had  been  made  dumb  by  the  splendour  of  the 
entertainment.  I  had  expected  the  usual  sea-breakfast, 
whereas  I  beheld  spread  before  us  a  veritable  feast  of  shore 
provisions  :  eggs,  sausages,  butter  which  plainly  did  not 
come  from  a  Danish  tin,  cutlets,  and  even  a  dish  of  potatoes. 
It  was  three  weeks  since  I  had  seen  a  real,  live  potato.  I 
contemplated  them  with  interest,  and  Mr  Jacobus  disclosed 
himself  as  a  man  of  human,  homely  sympathies,  and  some- 
thing of  a  thought-reader. 

**  Try  them.  Captain,"  he  encouraged  me  in  a  friendly 
undertone.     "  They  are  excellent.  " 

"  They  look  that,"  I  admitted.  "  Grown  on  the  island, 
I  suppose." 

"Oh,  no,  imported.  Those  grown  here  would  be  more 
expensive." 

I  was  grieved  at  the  ineptitude  of  the  conversation.    W  ere 


192  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

these  the  topics  for  a  prominent  and  wealthy  merchant  to 
discuss  ?  I  thought  the  simpHcity  with  which  he  made 
himself  at  home  rather  attractive  ;  but  what  is  one  to  talk 
about  to  a  man  who  comes  on  one  suddenly,  after  sixty-one 
days  at  sea,  out  of  a  totally  unknown  little  town  in  an  island 
one  has  never  seen  before  ?  What  were  (besides  sugar) 
the  interests  of  that  crumb  of  the  earth,  its  gossip,  its  topics 
of  conversation  ? 

"  Of  course,  I  would  have  made  a  point  of  calling  on  you 
in  a  day  or  two,"  I  concluded. 

He  raised  his  eyelids  distinctly  at  me,  and  somehow 
managed  to  look  rather  more  sleepy  than  before. 

"  In  accordance  with  my  owners'  instructions,"  I  ex- 
plained.    "  You  have  had  their  letter,  of  course  ?  " 

By  that  time  he  had  raised  his  eyebrows  too  but  without 
any  particular  emotion.  On  the  contrary  he  struck  me 
then  as  absolutely  imperturbable. 

"  Oh  !  You  must  be  thinking  of  my  brother." 

It  was  for  me,  then,  to  say  "  Oh  !  "  But  I  hope  that  no 
more  than  civil  surprise  appeared  in  my  voice  when  I  asked 
him  to  what,  then,  I  owed  the  pleasure.  ...  He  was 
reaching  for  an  inside  pocket  leisurely. 

"  My  brother's  a  very  different  person.  But  I  am  well 
known  in  this  part  of  the  world.  You've  probably 
heard " 

I  took  a  card  he  extended  to  me.  A  thick  business  card, 
as  I  lived  !  Alfred  Jacobus — the  other  was  Ernest — dealer 
in  every  description  of  ship's  stores  !  Provisions  salt  and 
fresh,  oils,  paints,  rope,  canvas,  etc.,  etc.  Ships  in  harbour 
victualled  by  contract  on  moderate  terms 

"  I've  never  heard  of  you,"  I  said  brusquely. 

His  low-pitched  assurance  did  not  abandon  him. 

"  You  will  be  very  well  satisfied,"  he  breathed  out  quietly. 
{'Twixi  Laftd  and  Sea,  ^'  A  Smile  of  Fortune,"  pp.  5-13.) 

Of  necessity  this  is  a  long  quotation — one  of  the 
longest  I  have  given — for  it  is  difficult  to  suggest  the 
special  quality  of  Conrad's  later  style  in  a  short 
specimen.     It  may  seem  odd  to  say  that  the  most 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  193 


finished  of  Conrad's  prose  is  the  hardest  to  quote  in 
snatches,  but  of  course,  its  very  finish  gives  it  an 
impervious  and  uniform  coating,  welds  it,  so  to  speak, 
into  the  very  substance  of  the  story.  \The  Conrad  of 
the  latest  phase  is  a  writer  in  whom  all  the  constituents 
of  art  have  only  one  final  aspect— the  aspect  of  perfect 
balance  in  the  complete  representation  of  the  desired 
effect.  That  is  why  the  undue  emphasis  of  an  impres- 
sive and  original  personality  has  matured  into  the 
ironic  perspective  of  an  aloof  but  ever  powerful 
artist.?. 

It  is  a  singular  thing  to  consider  the  remark ablf 
changes  which  Conrad's  prose  has  undergone.  It 
is  like  a  snake  sloughing  its  skin  and  appearing,  at 
each  metamorphosis,  with  a  covering  of  rarer  texture. 
I  see  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Chance  is  any  more 
final  in  its  style  than  was  Almayer's  Folly  or  Nostro^no. 
Conrad  is  constantly  shifting  his  ground — he  is  not 
like  Flaubert  in  that.  His  prose  is  the  servant  of  a 
more  lively  and  unbiased  imagination  than  Flaubert's. 
It  has  passed  with  it  through  all  the  phases  of  romance 
and  sardonic  philosophy,  and  it  accompanies  it  always 
on  a  level  equal  to  its  swift,  incalculable  strides.  For 
no  one's  prose  more  adequately  represents  the  changes 
of  its  author's  mind,  [it  possesses,  indeed,  something 
equivalent  to  the  changeless  qualities  of  Conrad's 
art — his  way  of  approaching  a  subject,  his  view  of  the 
purposes  of  prose,  his  fundamental  reticence  concealed 
within  the  eloquence  of  his  phrases.j  But  in  other 
respects  it  has  altered  as  Conrad  has  altered.  The 
musical  rhythm  of  the  first  books  has  died  away  into 
the  finished  precision  of  the  latest.  Of  course,  there 
is  always  a  rhythm  in  Conrad's  prose— but  it  is  no 
longer  the  obvious  rhythm  of  melody  so  much  as  the 
delicate  rhythm  of  harmony.     It  is  the  same  pen  tliat 


194  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

is  writing,  but  it  is  a  pen  checked  and  schooled  in 
mid-career. 

On  thinking  of  the  later  Conrad  I  am  filled  with  a 
certain  regret — and  yet  I  do  see  that  a  change  was, 
perhaps,  inevitable  and  has  decidedly  given  us  a  more 
brilliant  writer.  For  the  early  Conrad  has  more 
command  over  the  cadence  of  language  than  over  the 
subtleties  ot  style.  His  vocabulary  tends  towards 
the  repetition  of  such  words  as  "  immense,"  "  mys- 
terious," "  impenetrable,"  and  the  sombre  music  of 
the  wilderness  is  echoed  almost  too  frequently  in  the 
three  rolls  of  sound  in  which  he  envisages  the  splendour 
and  darkness  of  tropical  lands.  \It  is  the  later  Conrad 
whose  individuality,  less  apparent  at  first  sight,  is 
really  more  in  harmony  with  a  great  tradition..  For 
the  later  Conrad  is  a  stylist  in  the  very  way  in  which 
Flaubert  is  a  stylist — a  man  to  whom  every  word  has 
its  value,  to  whom  every  sentence  has  its  significance;^'' 
Why  people  do  not  realise  that  moref  fully  is  simply 
because  his  prose  is  neither  eccentric  nor  mannered. 
The  crudity,  which  certainly  lurks  in  his  earlier  prose, 
has  entirely  gone-4-there  is  no  touch  of  the  florid  here. 
It  is  absolutely  compressed  and  finished.  And  when, 
as  in  the  three  stories  of  'Twixt  Land  and  Sea,\t)i\s  is 
joined  to  the  romantic  spirit  of  his  earlier  work,  the 
result  is  a  prose  of  most  delicious  buoyancy  and  ease. 
It  has  the  resiliency  of  the  finest  steel  spring — the 
resiliency  and  the  responsiveness. 

I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Conrad's  early 
style  has  created  a  theory  about  his  style  in  general 
that  prevents  people  realising  the  extent  to  which  his 
prose  has  altered.  It  is  a  pity,  for  it  must  keep  a 
certain  class  of  reader  away.  Those  who  take  the 
prose  of  Swift  or  Thackeray  as  their  model  are  not 
likely  to  admire  the  earlier  Conrad  but  they  might 


CONRAD'S  PROSE  195 


very  well  admire  the  later.  So  it  seems  to  mc.  For 
the  later  Comad,  though  he  is  actually  a  harder 
writer  to  appreciate  than  the  earlier  Conrad,  is 
apparently  nearer  to  the  classical  ideal.  A  certain 
foreign,  exotic  element  has  disappeared,  and,  though 
it  has  been  replaced  by  a  precision  which  is  not 
Enghsh  at  all,  still  there  is  no  longer  anything 
**  outlandish "  about  it.  What  mysteries  cannot 
be  concealed  by  a  sardonic  simplicity  \J 

But  even  in  Conrad's  latest  work,  in  Chance  itself, 
there  are  the  slight  traces  of  an  alien  nationality. 
For  instance — it  is  quite  unimportant— I  have  counted 
several  split  infinitives  in  Chance.  Nevertheless, 
as  far  as  English  is  concerned,  Chance  is  Conrad's 
most  perfect  production.  I  do  not  assert  that  the 
language  has  the  fire  of  The  Nigger  of  the  '*  Narcissus  " 
or  the  serene  beauty  of  Nostromo,  but  it  has  a  surface 
of  glistening  and  even  polish.  It  presents  to  the 
critic  an  almost  impregnable  armour—though,  of 
course,  I  am  not  saying  that  to  be  impregnable  is  to 
be  everything.  If  perfection  were  to  be  synonymous 
with  imagination,  etching  would  probably  be  a  greater 
art  than  painting.  Chance  is  a  very  remarkable  book 
but  I  do  not  think  it  is  so  remarkable  as  Nostromo, 
and  I  doubt  whether  it  is  so  remarkable  as  ?  he  Nigger 
of  the  "  Narcissus  " — but  it  is  certainly  more  perfect 
than  either.  It  is  perfect  in  the  sense  of  its  complete 
unity  and  of  the  conscious  mastery  in  every  phrase. 
Less  a  work  of  imagination  than,  say.  Lord  Jim,  it  is 
more  a  work  of  art.  You  would  not  find  a  sentence 
like  this  in  Chance — a  sentence  which  occurs  in  Lord 
Jim  :— 

The  lumps  of  white  coral  shone  rotifid  the  dark  mound 
like  a  chaplet  of  bleached  skulls,  and  everything  around  was 
so  quiet  that  when  I  stood  still  all  sowtd  and  all  movement 


196  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


in  the  world  seemed  to  come  to  an  end.    {Lord  ]im^  p.  346 — 
the  italics  are  mine.) 

but  equally  you  would  not  find  any  passages  like  those 
describing  the  voyage  of  the  pilgrim  ship  across  the 
Indian  Ocean. 

In  the  opening  chapter  of  this  book  I  had  to 
speak  shortly  of  Conrad's  theory  of  style  in  relation 
to  that  of  some  of  his  contemporaries  and  recent  pre- 
decessors, and  I  made  a  rerfiark  there  which  is  really  so 
applicable  to  Ms  whole  prose  that  I  will  repeat  it  here 
— "  his  work  ...  is  essentially  dignified  and  quite 
untinged  by  the  pettiness  of  conscious  self -approval." 
How  absolutely  true  that  is  of  his  prose  !  iJt  is  that, 
combined  with  his  vast  creative  force,  that  puts  him 
at  one  step  in  the  front  rank.  This  is  not  said  with  the 
vague  optimism  of  a  reviewer  but  with  due  responsi- 
bility. For  I  know  that  a  distinguished  sense  of 
form  is  the  rarest  thing  in  current  literature.  In 
England,  for  instance,  we  have  many  living  writers 
of  high  and  excellent  talent,  but  we  have  very  few 
stylists — and  such  as  we  have  are  very  little  known. 
Some  of  them  write  only  in  obscure  papers,  others,  like 
the  Doughty  of  Arabia  Desetta,  the  Hudson  of  Green 
Mansions,  the  Douglas  of  Syren  Land,  are  enthusi- 
astically admired  by  a  few  and  ignored  by  every  one 
else.  No  doubt  Conrad,  James,  and  Hardy  are  known 
(though  Hardy,  apart  from  his  introductory  chapters 
and  his  peasant  conversations,  is  often  a  very  bad 
stylist),  but  in  so  far  as  they  are  stylists  and  do  under- 
stand the  art  of  prose  they  are  probably  distrusted. 
To  be  a  distinguished  writer,  as  apart  from  being  a 
fanciful  or  precious  writer,  is  to  be,  in  England,  almost 
entirely  unappreciated.  That  is  really  the  tiuth  of 
the  matter^ 
Though  ^Conrad's  individuality  lies   transparently 


CONEAD'S  PROSE  197 


in  every  line  of  his  prose  yet  it  is  (as  his  characters 
are)  subordinate  to  the  whole  unity  of  the  story.  This 
is  nearly  always  the  case — for  even  in  his  earlier  books 
he  seldom  obscures  the  picture,  though  the  picture, 
itself,  may  be  a  heightened  one.  jThe  ulterior  motive, 
either  of  smartness  or  eccentricity,  is  lacking  in 
Conrad's  prose.  ^]  It  has  the  single-mindedness  of  the 
great  artist — not  the  artist  who  looks  upon  style 
as  an  end  in  itself  but  of  that  rarer  and  truer  artist 
who  regards  it  as  one  step  in  the  race.;  There  is 
not  a  trace  of  preciosity  in  Conrad's  prose.  Itr, 
mannerisms  are  of  a  quite  different  order.  For 
preciosity  in  the  prose  of  fiction  is  generally  mere 
prostitution,  whereas  mannerism  may  be  a  quite  pure 
form  of  artistic  egoism.  Conrad's  prose,  and  particu- 
larly his  later  prose,  may  not  attract  so  much  present 
attention  for  this  very  reason,  but  of  course  it  will  be 
appreciated  at  its  extraordinary  value  later  on,  just 
as  Flaubert's  prose  is  now  appreciated. 


CHAPTER  X 

CONRAD   AS   ARTIST 

In  the  past  chapters  of  this  book  I  have  had  to  discuss, 
now  and  then,  the  subject  of  Conrad  as  artist.  It 
was  inevitable.  In  this  chapter  I  will  gather  up  some 
of  the  threads.  For  instance,  in  regard  both  to  his 
characters  and  his  atmosphere  I  have  had  to  impress 
on  the  reader  the  sense  of  artistic  unity  that  underlies 
all  Conrad's  work — that  sense  which  subordinates  to 
the  whole  effect  every  individual  part  of  the  schemq^ 
To  understand  properly  any  novel  or  story  by  Conrad 
we  must  see  it  in  a  perspective  that  encloses  the  entire 
thing.  For  it  is  the  proportions  of  the  completed 
structure  that  gives  the  final  appeal  to  any  woik 
of  art.  There  is  neither  a  chapter  nor  a  character  in 
Conrad's  books  which  does  not  have  its  proper  value 
and  which  is  not  of  less  importance  in  itself  than  in  its 
influence  upon  the  total  result. 

The  question  of  what  makes  a  writer  an  artist  is 
too  often  obscured  by  an  over-emphasis  of  individual 
points.  It  is,  for  instance,  a  good  thing  not  to  repeat 
words,  but  it  is  better  to  repeat  words  than  to  strain 
synonyms.  Again,  a  writer  may  be  perfect  in  the 
rhythm  and  balance  of  his  prose  but  he  may  be  in- 
artistic through  his  very  redundancy.  More^ver^  art 
requires  in  a  novelist  a  certain  attitude  towards  his 
work^  The  artist  must  be  distinguTsIied  not  merely 
in  his  technique  but  in  his  vision.  That  is  why,  in 
my  opinion,  ConracTis^a  greater  artist  than,  say,  Henry 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  199 


James.  For  Conrad  is  concerned  with  a  more  actual 
world  than  Henry  James,  and  consequently  his  ait 
falls  into  more  natural  channels^  However  skilful 
and  artistic  a  novel  by  Henry  James  may  hv,  it 
oppresses  one  through  its  air  of  boundless  tri\'iality. 
These  eternal,  subtle  conversations,  these  storms  in 
tea-cups,  cannot  be  the  end-all  of  art.  And  I  think 
one  does  feel  that  it  arises  from  an  over-emphasis  in 
Henry  James'  mind  of  the  importance  of  shades  of  a 
peculiarly  inexpressible  and  spiritual  kind—well,  not 
so  much  of  their  individual  importance  as  of  their 
importance  in  comparison  to  that  of  other  emotions. 
It  is  as  easy  to  miss  the  realistic  effect  through  over- 
detail  as  through  want  of  perception.  If  you  look  too 
closely  at  a  picture  it  is  as  meaningless  as  if.you_look 
at  it  from  too  far  aw_ay.  Broadly  speaking^  Conrad  is 
an  artist  because  he  sees  his  work  in  focus  and  in  rela- 
tion not  alone  to  art  but  to  life.  ^  Flaubert  is,  no  doubt, 
more "csnrsful"m Ills  detail,  but  Conrad  creates  reahty 
more  effectively.  For  it  is  as  a  realist  that  Conrad 
is  most  impressive.  All  his  artistic  impersonality,  all 
the  co-ordination  of  his  powers,  has  this  in  vie\v- 

It  is  a  point  I  have  had  to  lay  stress  on  more  than 
once.  For  that  is  one  of  his  fundamental,  one  of  his 
invincible  beUefs.  The  spirit  of  his  work  is  realistic 
in  a  rare  and  curious  manner.  For  it  is  a  realism  which 
includes  romance  as  one  of  its  chief  assets  but  which 
has  a  positive  horror  of  falsehood.  This  realism 
encloses  all  his  writing  with  an  air  of  sincerity  and 
distinction  which  gives  it  a  "  tone  "  no  other  modern 
work  seems  quite  to  possess.  Let  me  quote  two  short 
paragraphs  from  Some  Reminiscences  to  show,  in 
Conrad's  own  words,  his  idea  of  the  true  novelist  :— 
.  .   .  whose  first  virtue  is  the  exact  undersUindinp  of  the 

limits  traced    by   the   reality  of   his   time  to  the  play  of 


200  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


his  invention.  Inspiration  comes  from  the  earth,  which 
has  a  past,  a  history,  a  future,  not  from  the  cold  and  immut- 
able heaven.     {Some  Reminiscences,  p.  i68.) 

Even  before  the  most  seductive  reveries  I  have  remained 
mindful  of  that  sobriety  of  interior  life,  that  asceticism  of 
sentiment,  in  which  alone  the  naked  form  of  truth,  such 
as  one  conceives  it,  such  as  one  feels  it,  can  be  rendered 
without  shame.    {Some  Reminiscences,  p.  194.) 

And  leading  out  of  this  realism  we  notice  a  signifi- 
cant thing  about  his  short  stories.  It  Js_^this^that_ 
they  always  are  stories  and  never  mere  sketches. 
Evenlli~~so""sIigIif  "a'lalF  as  '^l  Conde  "  there  is  a 
realism  at  work  to  create  convincingly  the  illusion  of 
veracity.  It  works  through  imagination,  upwards 
into  an  atmosphere,  downwards  into  grasp  of  detail. 
For  the  realism  of  Conraiils.  art  gives  it  that  touch 
of  life-like  actuality  without  which  art  is  so  apt  to 
degenerate  into^  artifice,  j 

And  arising,  also,  from  Conrad's  realism  (a  realism 
tinged  by  romance,  as  I  have  said)  is  his  dramatic 
intensity — ^which,  I  most  certainly  think,  is  one  of 
t^e^ecreTs  of  his  genius^  By  his  dramatic  intensity 
I  mean  His  marvellous  power  ol  throwing"  his 
oWh  vitality  over  his  work,  of  making  his  descrip- 
tions,  his  crises,  his  whole  picture,  thrilling:  This 
dramatic  intensity  is  more  the  servant  of  tragedy 
than  of  iron}?^  Conrad,  indeed,  must  be  placed 
amongst  the  great  tragic  wrfTerS.  And  in  saying 
this,  I  arn  referring  equally  trriiis  power  of^.tragic 
climax  and  his  grasp  of  tragjg.  falg  in  relation  to 
character!  But  it  is  his  power  of  climax  that  I  have 
herenTTfly  mind.  Think,  for  an  instant,  of  the  murder 
of  Willems  in  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands  (pp.  383-4), 
of  the  murder  of  Verloc  in  The  Secret  Agent  (pp.  372-3), 
of  the  deafening  of  Razumov  in  Under  Western  Eyes 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  201 


(PP-  359-65),  of  the  torturing  of  Hirsch  in  Nostromo 

(PP-  379-82),  of  the  suicide  of  Decoud  in  Nosiromo 

(pp.  423-5)  >  and  of  those  stupendous  passages  whirh 

close   this  latter  book.     I  will  quote  the  description 

of  Hirsch  and  this  last  description  from  Nostromo  in 

full  though  they  are  not  short.     This  is  the  first  :— 

He  was  working  himself  up  to  the  right  pitch  of  ferocity. 

His  fine  eyes  squinted  slightly ;    he  clapped  his  hands  ;  'a 

bare-footed  orderly  appeared  noiselessly  :    a  corporal,  with 

his  bayonet  hanging  on  his  thigh  and  a  stick  in  his  hand. 

The  colonel  gave  his  orders,  and  presently  the  miserable 
Hirsch,  pushed  in  by  several  soldiers,  found  him  frownint; 
awfully  in  a  broad  armchair,  hat  on  head,  knees  wide  apart, 
arms  akimbo,  masterful,  imposing,  irresistible,  haught}-, 
sublime,  terrible. 

Hirsch,  with  his  arms  tied  behind  his  back,  had  been 
bundled  violently  into  one  of  the  smaller  rooms.  For  many 
hours  he  remained  apparently  forgotten,  stretched  lifelessly 
on  the  floor.  From  that  solitude,  full  of  despair  and  terror. 
he  was  torn  out  brutally,  with  kicks  and  blows,  passive,  sunk 
in  hebetude.  He  listened  to  threats  and  admonitions,  and 
afterwards  made  his  usual  answers  to  questions,  with  his 
chili  sunk  on  his  breast,  his  hands  tied  behind  his  back, 
swaying  a  little  in  front  of  Sotillo,  and  never  looking  up. 
When  he  was  forced  to  hold  up  his  head,  by  means  of  a 
bayonet-point  proddmg  him  under  the  chin,  his  eyes  had  a 
vacant,  trance-like  stare,  and  drops  of  perspiration  as  bij,' 
as  peas  were  seen  hailing  down  the  dirt,  bruises,  and  scratches 
of  his  white  face.    Then  they  stopped  suddenly. 

Sotillo  looked  at  him  in  silence.  "  Will  you  depart  from 
your  obstinacy,  you  rogue  ?  "  he  asked.  Already,  a  rop>e 
whose  one  end  was  fastened  to  Seiior  Hirsch's  wTists,  had 
been  thrown  over  a  beam,  and  three  soldiers  held  the  other 
end,  waiting.  He  made  no  answer.  His  hea\y  lower  lip 
hung  stupidly.  Sotillo  made  a  sign.  He  w^as  jerked  up 
off  his  feet,  and  a  yell  of  despair  and  agony  burst  out  into 
the  room,  filled  the  passage  of  the  great  buildings,  rent  the 
air  outside,  caused  every  soldier  of  the  camp  along  the  short- 
to  look  up  at  the  windows,  started  some  of  the  officers  in 


202  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

the  hall  babbling  excitedly,  with  shining  eyes ;  others, 
setting  their  lips,  looked  gloomily  at  the  floor. 

Sotillo,  followed  by  the  soldiers,  had  left  the  room.  The 
sentry  on  the  landing  presented  arms.  Hirsch  went  on 
screaming  all  alone  behind  the  half-closed  jalousies,  while 
the  sunshine,  reflected  from  the  water  of  the  harbour,  made 
an  ever-running  ripple  of  light  high  up  on  the  wall.  He 
screamed  with  uplifted  eyebrows  and  a  wide  open  mouth — 
incredibly  wide,  black,  enormous,  full  of  teeth — comical. 

In  the  still  burning  air  of  the  windless  afternoon  he  made 
the  waves  of  his  agony  travel  as  far  as  the  O.S.N.  Company's 
offices.  Captain  MitcheU  on  the  balcony,  trying  to  make 
out  what  went  on  generally,  had  heard  him  faintly  but 
distmctly,  and  the  feeble  and  appalling  sound  lingered  in  his 
ears  after  he  had  retreated  indoors  with  blanched  cheeks. 
He  had  been  driven  off  the  balcony  several  times  during 
that  afternoon. 

Sotillo,  irritable,  moody,  walked  restlessly  about,  held 
consultations  with  his  officers,  gave  contradictory  orders  in 
this  shrill  clamour  pervading  the  whole  empty  edifice.  Some- 
times there  would  be  long  and  awful  silences.  Several  times 
he  had  entered  the  torture-chamber,  where  his  sword,  horse- 
whip, revolver,  and  field-glass  were  lying  on  the  table,  to  ask 
with  forced  calmness,  "  Will  you  speak  the  truth  now  ? 
No  ?  I  can  wait."  But  he  could  not  afford  to  wait  much 
longer.  That  was  just  it.  Every  time  he  went  in  and  came 
out  with  a  slam  of  the  door,  the  sentiy  on  the  landing  pre- 
sented arms,  and  got  in  return,  a  black,  venomous,  unsteady 
glance,  which,  in  reality,  saw  nothing  at  all,  being  merely 
the  reflection  of  the  soul  within — a  soul  of  gloomy  hatred, 
irresolution,  avarice,  and  fury. 

The  sun  had  set  when  he  went  in  once  more.  A  soldier 
carried  in  two  lighted  candles  and  slunk  out,  shutting  the 
door  without  noise. 

"  Speak,  thou  Jewish  child  of  the  devil !  The  silver  ! 
The  silver,  I  say  !  Where  is  it  ?  Where  have  you  foreign 
rogues  hidden  it  ?     Confess  cr " 

A  slight  quiver  passed  up  the  taut  rope  from  the  racked 
limbs,  but  the  body  of  Seiior  Hirsch,  enterprising  business 
man  from  Esmeralda,  hung  under  the  heavy  beam  per- 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  oq.^ 


pendicular  and  silent,  facing  the  colonel  awfully.  'The 
inflow  of  the  night  air,  cooled  by  the  snows  of  the  Sierra, 
spread  gradually  a  dehcious  freshness  through  the  clos<! 
heat  of  the  room. 

"  Speak — thief — scoundrel — picaro — or " 

Sotillo  had  seized  the  horsewhip,  and  stood  with  his  arm 
lifted  up.  For  a  word,  for  one  little  word,  he  felt  he  would 
have  knelt,  cringed,  grovelled  on  the  floor  before  the  drowsy, 
conscious  stare  of  those  fixed  eyeballs  stirting  out  of  the 
grimy,  dishevelled  head  that  drooped  very  still  with  its 
mouth  closed  askew.  The  colonel  ground  his  teeth  and 
struck.  The  rope  vibrated  leisurely  to  the  blow,  like  the 
long  string  of  a  pendulum  starting  from  a  rest.  But  no 
swinging  motion  was  imparted  to  the  body  of  Scfior  Hirsch, 
the  well-known  hide  merchant  on  the  coast.  With  a  con- 
vulsive effort  of  the  twisted  arms  it  leaped  up  a  few  inches, 
curling  upon  itself  like  a  fish  on  the  end  of  a  line.  Sefior 
Hirsch's  head  was  flung  back  on  his  straining  throat ;  his 
chin  trembled.  For  a  moment  the  rattle  of  his  chattering 
teeth  pervaded  the  vast,  shadowy  room,  where  the  candles 
made  a  patch  of  light  round  the  two  flames  burning  side  by 
side.  And  as  Sotillo,  staying  his  raised  hand,  waited  for 
him  to  speak,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  a  grin  and  a  straining 
forward  of  the  wrenched  shoulders,  he  spat  violently  into 
his  face. 

The  uplifted  whip  fell,  and  the  colonel  sprang  back  with 
a  low  cry  of  dismay,  as  if  aspersed  by  a  jet  of  deadly  venom. 
Quick  as  thought  he  snatched  up  his  revolver,  and  fired  twice. 
The  report  and  concusoion  of  the  shots  seemed  to  throw 
him  at  once  from  ungovernable  rage  into  idiotic  stupor.  He 
stood  with  drooping  jaw  and  stony  eyes.  What  had  he  done, 
Sangre  de  Dios  !  What  had  he  done  ?  He  was  basely 
appalled  at  his  impulsive  act,  sealing  for  ever  these  lips 
from  which  so  much  was  to  be  extorted.  What  could  he 
say?  How  could  he  explain?  Ideas  of  headlong  flight 
somewhere,  anywhere,  passed  through  his  mind  ;  even  the 
craven  and  absurd  notion  of  hiding  under  the  table  occurred 
to  his  cowardice.  It  was  too  late  ;  his  officers  had  rushed 
in  tumultuously,  in  a  great  clatter  of  scabbards,  clamouring 
with  astonishment  and  wonder.    But  since  they  did  not 


204  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


immediately  proceed  to  plunge  their  swords  into  his  breast, 
the  brazen  side  of  his  character  asserted  itself.  Passing  the 
sleeve  of  his  uniform  over  his  face  he  pulled  himself  together. 
His  truculent  glance  turned  slowly  here  and  there,  checked 
the  noise  where  it  fell ;  and  the  stiff  body  of  the  late  Senor 
Hirsch,  merchant,  after  swaying  imperceptibly,  made  a 
half  turn,  and  came  to  a  rest  in  the  midst  of  awed  murmurs 
and  uneasy  shuffling.    {Nosiromo,  pp.  379-82.) 

And  this  is  the  second — the  final  paragraphs  in 
No  stroma,  perhaps  the  most  thrilHng  paragraphs  in 
the  whole  of  Conrad  : — 

From  the  moment  he  fired  at  the  thief  of  his  honour, 
Giorgio  Viola  had  not  stirred  from  the  spot.  He  stood,  his 
old  gun  grounded,  his  hand  grasping  the  barrel  near  the 
muzzle.  After  the  lancha  carrj^ing  off  Nostromo  for  ever 
from  her  had  left  the  shore,  Linda,  coming  up,  stopped 
before  him.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  her  presence, 
but  when,  losing  her  forced  calmness,  she  cried  out 

'*  Do  you  know  whom  you  have  killed  ?  "  he  answered 

"  Ramirez  the  vagabond." 

White,  and  staring  insanely  at  her  father,  Linda  laughed 
in  his  face.  After  a  time  he  joined  her  faintly  in  a  deep- 
toned  and  distant  echo  of  her  peals.  Then  she  stopped,  and 
the  old  man  spoke  as  if  startled 

"  He  cried  out  in  son  Gian'  Battista's  voice." 

The  gun  fell  from  his  opened  hand,  but  the  arm  remained 
extended  for  a  moment  as  if  still  supported.  Linda  seized 
it  roughly. 

'*  You  are  too  old  to  understand.     Come  into  the  house." 

He  let  her  lead  him.  On  the  threshold  he  stumbled  heavily, 
nearly  coming  to  the  ground  together  with  his  daughter.  His 
excitement,  his  activity  of  the  last  few  days,  had  been  like  the 
flare  of  a  dying  lamp.     He  caught  at  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"  In  son  Gian'  Battista's  voice,"  he  repeated  in  a  severe 
tone.     *'  I  heard  him — Ramirez — the  miserable " 

Linda  helped  him  into  the  chair,  and,  bending  low,  cried 
into  his  ear 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  205 


"  You  have  killed  Gian'  Battista." 

The  old  man  smiled  under  hi-  thick  moustarhr.  Women 
had  strange  fancies. 

''Where  is  the  child  ?  "  he  asked,  surprised  at  the  jK-ne- 
trating  chilUness  of  the  air  and  the  unwonted  dimness  of  the 
lamp  by  which  he  used  to  sit  up  half  the  night  with  tlie  op<'n 
Bible  before  him. 

Linda  hesitated  a  moment,  then  averted  her  evrs. 

''She  is  asleep/'  she  said.  "We  shall  talk  ..f  her  to- 
morrow." 

She  could  not  bear  to  look  at  him.  lie  filh.d  her  witli 
terror  and  with  an  almost  unbearable  feeling  of  pity.  She 
had  observed  the  change  that  came  over  him.  He  would 
never  understand  what  he  had  done  ;  and  e\en  to  her  the 
whole  thing  remained  incomprehensible.  He  said  with 
difficulty 

"  Give  me  the  book." 

Linda  laid  on  the  table  the  closed  volume  in  its  worn 
leather  cover,  the  Bible  given  him  ages  ago  by  an  Kns;lishman 
in  Palermo. 

"  The  child  had  to  be  protected,"  he  said,  in  a  strange, 
mournful  voice. 

Behmd  his  chair  Linda  wrung  her  hands,  crying  without 
noise.  Suddenly  she  started  for  the  door.  He  heard  her 
move. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  the  hght,"  she  answered,  turning  round  to  Icok  at 
him  balefully. 

"  The  light  !    Si— duty." 

Very  upright,  white-haired,  leonine,  heroic  in  his  absorbed 
quietness,  he  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  red  shirt  for  the  spectacles 
given  him  by  Doha  Emilia.  He  put  them  on.  After  a  long 
period  of  immobility  he  opened  the  book,  and  from  on  high 
looked  through  the  glasses  at  the  small  print  in  double 
columns.  A  rigid,  stern  expression  settled  uprn  his  features 
with  a  slight  frown,  as  if  in  response  to  some  gloomy  thought 
or  unpleasant  sensation.  But  he  never  detached  his  eyes 
from  the  book  while  he  swayed  forward,  gently,  gradually, 
till  his  snow-white  head  rested  upon  the  open  pages.  A 
wooden  clock  ticked  methodically  on  the  white-washed  wall, 


206  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

and  growing  slowly  cold,  the  Garibaldino  lay  alone,  rugged, 
undecayed,  like  an  old  oak  uprooted  by  a  treacherous  gust 
of  wind. 

The  light  of  the  Great  Isabel  burned  peacefully  above 
the  lost  treasure  of  the  San  Tome  mine.  Into  the  bluish 
sheen  of  a  night  without  stars,  the  lantern  sent  out  a  beam 
of  yellow  light  towards  the  far  horizon.  Like  a  black  speck 
upon  the  shining  panes,  Linda,  crouching  in  the  outer  gallery, 
rested  her  head  on  the  rail.  The  moon,  drooping  in  the 
western  board,  looked  at  her  radiantly. 

Below,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  the  regular  splash  of  oars 
from  a  passing  boat  ceased,  and  Dr  Monygham  stood  up  in 
the  stern  sheets. 

"  Linda  !  "  he  shouted,  throwing  back  his  head.    "  Linda  !  " 

Linda  stood  up.     She  had  recognised  the  voice. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  she  cried,  bending  over. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  girl.  I  am  coming  round,"  the  doctor 
answered  from  below.  "  Pull  to  the  beach,"  he  said  to  the 
rowers. 

Linda's  black  figure  detached  itself  upright  on  the  light 
of  the  lantern  with  her  arms  raised  above  her  head  as  though 
she  were  going  to  throw  herself  over. 

"  It  is  I  who  loved  you,"  she  whispered,  with  a  face  as  set 
and  white  as  marble  in  the  moonlight.  "  I !  Only  I ! 
She  will  forget  thee,  killed  miserably  for  her  pretty  face. 
I  cannot  understand.  I  cannot  understand.  But  I  shall 
never  forget  thee.     Never  !  " 

She  stood  silent  and  still,  as  if  collecting  her  strength  to 
throw  all  her  fidelity,  her  pain,  bewilderment  and  despair 
into  one  great  cry. 

"  Never  !    Gian'  Battista  !  " 

Dr  Monygham,  pulling  round  in  the  police-galley,  heard 
the  name  pass  over  his  head.  It  was  another  of  Nostromo's 
successes,  the  greatest,  the  most  enviable,  the  most  sinister 
of  all.  In  that  true  cry  of  love  and  grief  that  seemed  to 
ring  aloud  from  Punta  Mala  to  Azuera  and  away  to  the 
bright  line  of  the  horizon,  overhung  by  a  big  white  cloud 
shining  like  a  mass  of  solid  silver,  the  genius  of  the  magnificent 
Capataz  de  Cargadores  dominated  the  dark  Gulf  containing 
his  conquests  of  treasure  and  love,    {Nostromo,  pp.  477-80 , 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  207 


<  I  would  like  to  point  out  one  thing  that  these  two 
strange  and  moving  descriptions  have  in  common, 
and  that  is  the  effect  produced  on  us  in  each  instanci' 
by  the  contrast  of  the  utter  serenity  of  nature  to  the 
disastrous  turmoil  of  human  passions.  When,  upon 
the  agony  of  Hirsch's  torture  darkness  begins  to  fall. 
and  "  the  inflow  of  the  night  air,  cooled  by  the  snows 
of  the  Sierra,  spread  gradually  a  delicious  freshness 
through  the  close  heat  of  the  room  "  ;  when,  above 
the  dead  body  of  the  old  Garibaldino,  above  the  despair 
of  Linda,  and  the  wreck  of  lives,  we  feel  around  us 
only  the  great  peacefulness  of  the  night,  and  "  the 
moon,  drooping  in  the  western  board,  looked  at  her 
[Linda]  radiantly,"  we  experience  an  intense,  dramatic 
emotion.  These  contrasts  heighten  for  us  the  whole 
effect — make  the  night  appear  still  calmer,  softer, 
more  immense,  make  the  dramas  more  terrible,  more 
vivid,  and  more  absorbing. 

These  last  paragraphs  of  Nostromo  do  seem  to  me 
extraordinarily  beautiful.  Never  throughout  the 
whole  book  does  the  smooth  and  gloomy  vastness  of 
the  Placid  Gulf  weigh  heavier  upon  our  senses,  never 
does  the  "  lost  treasure  of  the  San  Tome  mine  "  appear 
more  enticing,  more  secret,  more  unobtainable.  A 
wonderful  and  sombre  eloquence  vibrates  through 
these  sentences,  an  eloquence  touched  with  mystery 
and  with  despair.  The  whole  scene  is  muffled  in  the 
velvety  darkness  of  a  starless  night.  And  the  great 
cry  that  closes  the  book  can  almost  be  heard  ringing 
out  over  the  silence  of  the  soundless  gulf. 

Indeed,  the  details  of  Conrad's  art  can  seldom  be 
studied  more  satisfactorily  than  in  his  terminations. 
He  has  the  capacity  of  ending  up  on  a  note  of  splendid 
contrast  or  in  a  final  burst  of  eloquence  or  memor\'. 
The  close  of  Almayer's  tolly,  of  an  Outcast  of  the 


208  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Islands,  of  The  Nigger  of  the  '*  Narcissus,"  of  Lord  Jim, 
of  Nostromo,  of  The  Secret  Agent,  amongst  his  novels, 
and  of  ''An  Outpost  of  Progress,"  of  "  The  Return," 
of  "  Youth,"  of  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  amongst  his 
short  stories  are  truly  impressive.  Throughout  this 
book  I  have  quoted  a  number  of  these  passages,  but 
I  will  give  here  two  that  I  have  not  yet  made  use  of — 
one  from  a  novel,  and  one  from  a  story.  The  first 
is  from  Lord  Jim  : — 

Stein  has  aged  greatly  of  late.  He  feels  it  himself,  and 
says  often  that  he  is  "  preparing  to  leave  all  this  ;  pre- 
paring to  leave,  ..."  while  he  waves  his  hand  sadly  at 
his  butterflies.    {Lord  Jim,  p.  45i-) 

And  the  second  is  from  "  Heart  of  Darkness  ":  — 

Marlow  ceased,  and  sat  apart,  indistinct  and  silent,  in  the 
pose  of  a  meditating  Buddha.  Nobody  moved  for  a  time. 
"  We  have  lost  the  first  of  the  ebb,"  said  the  Director,  sud- 
denly. I  raised  my  head.  The  offing  was  barred  by  a  black 
bank  of  clouds,  and  the  tranquil  waterway  leading  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  flowed  sombre  under  an  overcast 
sky — seemed  to  lead  into  the  heart  of  an  immense  darkness. 
{Youth,  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  p.  182.) 

The  first  of  these  quotations  has  the  restful  sadness 
that  is  typical  of  the  Shakespearean  ending  of 
tragedy — a  calm  has  settled  upon  the  stormy  sea, 
but  such  peace  as  it  brings  can  never  be  what  it  was 
before.  The  second  is  the  more  modern  form  of  a 
dramatic  ending  outside  the  drama  of  the  story. 
Both  alike  are  moving,  more  especially  when  we 
have  the  context  clearly  in  mind.  It  is,  indeed, 
very  curious  to  study  Conrad's  art  in  regard  to 
his  manipulation  of  mood  in  a  story.  From  the 
opening  to  the  close,  the  march  of  events  presses 
upon   the   emotion    m    exact    ratio    to  the   desired 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST 


209 


effect  Itjsjycejyhe^rise  and  faU  of  a  Beetho\cn 
symphony. 

/^T^SB^another  form  in  which  Conrad  reveals  his 
dram_atic  .5ense  is  in  his  short,  swift  pictures  ..f 
states^^Jfeeling  or  of  events.  inlSdrihings  he 
show^tfiTeloquence  of  high  prose-poetry.  They  arc 
dramatic  in  the  concentration  of  their  imaginative 
appeal,  and  artistic  in  the  choice  splendour  of  their 
laigu^i^-let  me  give  a  few  examples  of  what  I 
mean  :^^ 

The  clock  began  to  strike,  and  the  deep-toned  vibration 
filled  the  room  as  though  with  the  sound  of  an  enormous 
bell  tolling  far  away.  He  counted  the  strokes.  Twelve. 
Another  day  had  begun.  To-morrow  had  come  :  the 
mysterious  and  lying  to-morrow  that  lures  men,  disdainful 
of  love  and  faith,  on  and  on  through  the  poignant  futilities 
of  life  to  the  fitting  reward  of  a  grave.  {Tales  of  Unrest, 
"  The  Return,"  p.  262.) 

.  .  .  and  she  had  about  her  the  worn,  weary  air  of  shijis 
coming  from  the  far  ends  of  the  world — and  indeed  with 
truth,  for  in  her  short  passage  she  had  been  very  far ;  sight- 
ing, verily,  even  the  coast  of  the  Great  Beyond,  whence  no 
ship  ever  returns  to  give  up  her  crew  to  the  dust  of  the 
earth.     (Typhoon,  "  Typhoon,"  p.  100.) 

He  had  not  regained  his  freedom.  The  spectre  of  the 
unlawful  treasure  arose,  standing  by  her  side  like  a  figure 
of  silver,  pitiless  and  secret  with  a  finger  upon  its  pale  lips. 
{Nosiromo,  p.  460.) 

L  He  was  a  little  sleepy  too,  and  felt  a  pleasurable  lan- 
guor running  through  every  limb  as  though  all  the  blood 
in  his  body  had  turned  to  warm  milk.  \{Lord  Jim,  p.  20.) 

The  white  Higuerota  soared  out  of  the  shadows  of  rock  and 
earth  like  a  frozen  bubble  under  the  moon.    {Nostromo,  p.  t^t,.) 

Razumov  stamped  his  foot— and  under  the  soft  carpet 
of  snow  felt  the  hard  ground  of  Russia,  inanimate,  cold, 
inert,  like  a  sullen  and  tragic  mother  hiding  her  face  under  a 

o 


210  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


winding-sheet.     {Under  Western  Eyes,  p.  30.     I  have  already 
quoted   this  as  part  of    a   longer   passage    in  a   previous 
^/chapter.) 

[And  then,  of  course,  Conrad  can  be  extraordinarily 
thrilling  in  the  kind  of  eloquent  silences  that  precede 
a  storm.  He^knows  how  to^  create  the  uneasy  ex- 
citement of  suspense.  Just  before  the  typhoon  in 
'^Typhoon,"  just  before  the  climax  in  "  Heart  of  Dark- 
ness," just  before  the  debacle  in  "  The  Return  "  just 
before  the  confession  in  Under  Western  Eyes,  there 
are  pauses  which  remind  one  of  the  calm  treachery  of 
a  whirlpool.  These  passages  of  Conrad's  are  amongst 
his  most  cunningly  dramatic  effects — the  effects  of  a 
very  great  and  daring  artist.  (In  this  view  of  Conrad's 
dramatic  intensity  I  am,  to  some  extent,  putting  my 
foot  on  ground  already  covered  in  my  chapter  on 
Conrad's  atmosphere.  But  when  I  said  there  that 
his  atmosphere  was  thrilling  I  had  in  mind  his  whole 
idea  of  atmosphere.  Here  I  am  thii^yag  of  the  indi- 
vidual application  of  the  dr amatk>j^^rnct . ) 

And  let  me  point  out  that  t^nrad  possesses  a 
power  which  probably  no  othexnovglisf^possesses.  to 
the  same  degree — the  capacity  for  marking:  a  shaiply- 
delined  edge  in  a  few  words.  We  may  call  this  his 
own  partfcular  '"^  stroke,"  and  ifTloes  separate  him 
very  effectively  from  other  men^  Indeed,  it  is  an 
artist's  "  stroke "  which  jnoulds  his  ideals.  For 
instance,  you  can  see  it,  as  a  friend  of  mine  observes, 
in  the  different  ones  held  by  metal-workers,  wood- 
carvers,  and  stone-cutters  who  have  gained  their 
ideals,  which  are  all  quite  distinct,  from  having  to 
work  with  different  strokes  (you  can  use  the  word 
here  in  its  actual  sense)  in  rnaterials  of  varying  pos- 
sibilities. But,  with  it  all. ^  Conrad  retains  his  full 
measure  of  romantic  sensibihty,  and  therefore  there 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  211 


is  nothing  harsh  in  his  clear,  precise  imagination. 
Perhaps  no  other  man  of  facts  and"  exactnesrevcr 
had  such  a  poetic  vision,  and  perhaps  no  other  poet 
ever  had  the  concrete  so  constantly  before  his  eyes.\ 

Complaint   is   often   made   of   the   long   narrative 
conversations  Conrad  puts  into  the  mouths  of  sucli 
people  as  Marlow  in  Lord  Jim  or  Captain  Mitchell 
in  Nostromo,  it  being  argued  that  the  artistic  reahty 
of  the  work  is  injured  by  the  impossibility  of  any  one 
man  being  able  to  remember  so  much  or  to  recount 
it  with  such  finished  and  exact  detail.     But  in  regard 
to  that  I  think  we  should  bear  three  things  in  mind. 
The  first  is  that  Conrad,  as  I  said  before  when  His^  tL 
cussing  Marlow,  gains  by  this  third  person  form  of i  j^ 
narrative  a  definite  perspective  which  is  valuable  U^ 
him. 

/  And  the  second  is  that  the  introduction  of  a  man 
nke  Marlow  gives  Conrad  the  opportunity  of  talking  >^ 
colloquially,  which  is  more  suitable  for  the  purpose 
of  a  story  like  that  of  Lord  Jim  than  the  glowing 
prose  of  his  own  manner  would  be.  Marlow  is 
primarily  there  in  virtue  of  Conrad's  pursuit  of 
reality.  Though,  even  so,  Marlow  talks  almost  too 
well.  His  presence  allows  Conrad,  himself,  to  take 
up  a  back  seat  and  to  write  more  closely  to  the 
actual  matter  in  hand — the  elucidation  of  a  problem 
of  character  and  environment. 

And  the  third  is,  that  realism  in  art  is  not  a 
substitute  for  photography.  Within  realism  itself 
the  artist  has  a  licence  of  which  he  has  full  liberty  to 
make  use  provided  the  effects  he  achieves  are  not  in 
themselves  unreal.  Surely  that  is  the  very  foundation 
of  art.  For  instance,  however  true  a  realist  a  writer 
may  be  he  must  pick  and  choose,  he  must  avoid  j)oint- 
less  banality,  he  must  be  careful  to  make  his  scheme 


212  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

coherent.  (The  only  person  I  ever  heard  of  who 
construed  reaUsm  in  a  stricter  sense  was  the  author 
of  Mr  Bailey,  Grocer,  in  Gissing's  New  Grub  Street — 
and  I  have  grave  doubts  as  to  whether  he  lived  up 
to  his  opinions.)  But  that  careful  selection  is  not  like 
actual  life,  not  at  all  like  it.  The  truth  is  that  a 
chronicle  of  life  as  it  really  is  would  be  incomprehen- 
sible— it  would  be  the  production  either  of  a  God  or 
of  a  lunatic. 
<c;  And  it  is  from  such  a  standpoint  that  I  defend 
Conrad.  When  he  chooses  a  narrative  form  to  tell 
his  story  he  does  it  because  it  suggests  the  reality  he 
wishes  to  picture  just  as  all  art  must  suggest  rather 
thaii  assert.  His  effects  are  real  and  therefore  his 
means  are  legitimate.  Personally  I  do  not  like  the 
means  and  I  think  that  he  does  carry  them  too  far, 
but  it  is  only  proper  to  explain  his  position.  I  daresay 
it  is  true  that  no  one  could  recollect  events  so  elo- 
quently or  minutely  as  Mario w,  but  the  result  is  not 
strained  and  so  the  method  can  be  accepted.  Conrad 
is  no  less  a  realist  on  account  of  this  than,  say, 
Maupassant  is  a  realist  on  account  of  his  marvellous 
judgment  in  knowing  what  to  take  and  what  to  leave. 
No,  in  the  result  it  is  even  proof  of  his  great  realistic 
power.  For  no  one  but  a  great  realist  could  conjure 
reality  from  so  obvious  an  exaggeration. 

Again,  we  know  that  Conrad  (as  in  Chance)  will, 
sometimes  narrate  a  story  through  the  mouth  not 
only  of  one  but  of  several  people.  This  is  a  curious 
point  in  his  technique,  because  it  shows  his  close 
comprehension  of  actual  life.  Apparently  misleading, 
this  is,  in  reality,  the  very  epitome  of  everyday 
experience.  Any  affair  of  complexity  that  comes 
under  one's  own  notice  generally  impresses  itself  on 
one   under  a  variety  of  shifting  lights^ — affected,  as 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  oy^ 


it  must  be,  by  the  particular  media  of  transmission") 
Just  as  in  life,  the  sum  total  impression  of  an  event  ^. 
is  ordered  and  logical  and  yet  may  be  derived  in  an 
inverted,   piecemeal,   and  scrappy  form,  so  is  it  m  ) 
Conrad's  books.     This  method  of  Conrad's  is  actu;ill\- 
a  cunning  touch  of  vivid  realism.  _ 

Indeed,  v^e  have  to  admit,  I  think,  thatjit  is  this^ 
overflowing  vitality,  dram^c  force,  and  unexpected-' 
ness  that  make  Conrad'^so  obviously  remarkable,  at 
the  expense,  perhaps,  ofreal  appreciation  of  his  other 
qualities — the  qualities  of  subtlety,  balance,  and 
perspective^, ^For.  after  all,  it  is  the  creative  which 
is  really  vital.  That  is  why  it  is  impossible  to  br  ;i 
great  artist  without  being  a^reat  imaginative  creator. 
Otherwise  art  is  a  mere  simulacrum.  But  thougli  a 
great  artist  must  be  a  great  creator,  a  great  creator 
need  not  be  a  great  artist.  For  instance,  Meredith  is 
not  a  great  artist  (though  he  "  could  do  the  best 
things  best  "),  whereas  Conrad  is.  Meredith's  self- 
consciousness  often  drove  him  towards  a  form  of 
robust  preciosity,  while  Conrad's  self-consciousness  is 
centred  first  of  all  upon  artistic  achievement.  Of 
course,  the  question  of  personality  does  make  com- 
parisons of  this  sort  almost  hopeless,  but  the  general 
law  holds  good.  And  the  general  law  is  sim])l:^Mjiis. 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  great  art  \vithout  gre^U 
imagination^though  the  converse  may  not  be  true  to 
the  same  degree.  Indeed,  I  am  tempted  to  say  that 
it  is  very  seldom  true  in  England.  Amongst  well- 
known  contemporary  novehsts,  Henry  James  and 
George  Moore  are  certainly  artists,  but,  suffering,  as 
they  do,  from  a  sort  of  anaemia  of  their  imagination, 
their  art  is  too  transparently  artistic— a  thin,t(  still 
more  obvious  in  their  followers. 

In  the  previous  chapter  I  pointed  out  that  it  was 


214  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


from  Flaubert^  Conrad  learnt  the  art  of  handling  a 
crowd.  This  is  the  stage-craft  of  novel-writing  in 
which  the  amateur  never  succeeds.  But  Conrad,' s 
touch  is  the^rm  and  suave_oiie_of_ a^master.  His 
grouping  of  people^conceals  the  machinery  behind. 
His  pictures  are  never  angidar^or  gauc^  That  is 
the  sort  of  gift  whose  whole  merit  lies  in  invisibility, 
and  consequently  it  is  apt  to  be  overlooked.  But  ' 
the  amateur  in  fiction  reveals  himself  as  surely""as" 
the  amateur  in  play  writing.  The  crudities  of  entrance 
and  exit  orTthe  stage  have  their  analogies  in  the  novel 
as  "certainly  as  the  more^^obvJQUS, crudities  of  falsity 
andbad'Taste.  ITt  is  the  fine  handling  of  a  crowd 
or  of  a  group  ol  people_which  gives  a  novelist  that 
grasp  of  a  situation  which  is  always  so  telling.  It  is 
one  of  the  chief  glories  of  men  like  Scott,  Balzac, 
Flaubert,  Tolstoy,  Meredith,  and  Conrad. 

Another  point  which  I  have  made  before  is  that, 
though  Conrad's  artistic  methods  are  always  changing 
and  developing,  his  artistic  aims  are  constant. ,  ^Alike 
in  his  earliest  as  in  his  latest  books,  he  has  the  same 
enJlnrview^^to  create  in  the  mind  of  his  reader  the 
sense  of  a  definite_situation  and  of  a  definite  mood^5 
Therefore  it  is  very  important  to  realise  the  artistic 
building  and  moulding  process  which  takes  place  ' 
before  our  eyes,  so  to  speak,  in  Conrad's  work.  Many 
people  have  complained  of  the  structure  of  such  novels 
as  Lord  Jim  and  Nostronio  as  being  too  roundabout, 
but  they  do  not  see  that  this  arises  partly  from 
Conrad's  intense  desire  to  create  a  convincing  atmos- 
phere and  partly  from  his  own  graphic  and  enquiring 
imagination — that  imagination  which  causes  his 
powerfully  subtle  brain  to  follow  up  the  winding 
clues  of  an  idea  into  all  sorts  of  bypaths  and  involved 
hypotheses,  forgetting,  as  it  were,  the  presence  of  the 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  o\r> 


reader  while  he  tries  to  discover  the  hint  tlmt  will 
unbare  "  the  secret  baseness  of  motives."  Porhnns 
after  all,  none  of  his  books  exemplifies  this  better  than 
Some  Reminiscences— {though,  in  this  direction,  it  is 
child's  play  compared  to  Henry  James'  A  Small 
Boy  and  Others).  There  you  have  the  ordinary  facts 
of  an  adventurous  life  treated  in  such  a  curious  and 
reflective  manner  that  really  one  hardly  ever  knows 
(vhere  one  is.  And  so  with  some  of  his  novels.  They 
may  be  further  advanced  on  page  eight  than  on  ])ai:.' 
eighty. 

jConradagain  shows  his  artistic  realism  in  the  fart 
that  his  works  are  not  overweighted  with  mechanical 
plots  or  improbable  coincidences,  i  No  character  can 
appear  actual,  when  it  is"^  obvious  from  the  first  tliat 
its  life  has  to'^'fit  into  a  preconceived  dovetailing. 
Look  at  the  denouement  of  a  book  like  Hardy's  The 
Mayor  of  Casterbridge — it  is  too  absurdly  obvious 
that  the  author  himself  is  pulling  the  strings  of  fattv 
Conrad  can  write  a  novel  called  Chance,  he  could  ne\cr 
write  one  called  Coincidence.  There  is  all  the  difference 
in  the  world. 

>    Of  course,nthis  artistic  reahsm,  this^ramatic  in- 
tensity underlying  all  Conrad's  work  is  largely  due. 
no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that  much  of-Jiis  material  is 
founded  upon  his  own  experiences.     (This  is  a  point  I 
ma3e~previously  in  regard  to  his  characters  and  his 
stories.)      To   recreate   the   scenes   of   yesterday   re- 
quires an  absolutely  sure  grip  on  the  essentials  of      / 
romantic  verity.     Why  Conrad  triumphs  is  that^hey 
never  loses  sight  of  his  main  efTect.|"  Other  men  can 
picture   past   events  but  it   ne'eds'  a   true   artist   to 
thread  his  way  through  a  maze  of  detail  without 
losing  his  sense  of  proportion. 
^  >  But  I  want  to  express  here  my  chief  ground  for 


216  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


believing  in  Conrad's  genius.  And  it  is  this.  ^He 
has  that  power,  vervjastonishing  and  very  rare,  of 
extract"ing~fr6m' a  thing  already  intensely  dramatic  a 
further  and  unimagined  eloquence. j  In  an  existing 
Scene,  ]ust  as  in  a  piece  of  music",'  one  can  nearly 
always  foretell  the  next  step.  And  that  is  why  so 
much  drama  exhausts  one's  emotions — its  pitch  is  too 
uniform  and,  as  it  were,  too  ordered.  But  at  the  very 
moment  of  crisis  Conrad  can  extract  just  that  some- 
thing more  Irom  the  material  which,  in  a  flash, 
seems  to  create  a  new  world  at  our  feet.  You  see 
that  in  his  passages  of  description,  of  tragedy,  and 
of  romance.  It  is  the  power  of  surprising  out  of 
itself  the  cynical  and  blase  imagination  of  the  sophis- 
ticated reader. 

4  The  originality  of  Conrad/s,  art  nowhere  reveals 
itself  more  clearlyjthan  in^his  treatment  of  inanimate 
objectS;  TheyJjye_forjiisjn_tlie  erQotTfni  of  the  story 
with  a  kind  of_crooked  vitality  of  their  own. ;.  I  will 
onTy  instaiiceThe  marble  woman  in  J  *^The  Returjti, ' ' 
and  the  piano  in  ThTSecrM^'Ag£nL  They  are  not  often 
rnentiohed,  but  by  some  means  or  other  Conrad  makes 
us  feel  their  presence  as  though  they  had  an  almost 
formidable  influence  on  the  course  of  events.  The 
aristocratic  touch  in  Conrad's  art  (for  in  its  fastidious- 
ness and  mastery  it  is  very  aristocratic)  is  apparent 
in  his  treatment  of  all  such  things.  And,  of  course, 
it  is  apt  to  be  misunderstood.  Look  at  the  Fynes' 
dog  in  Chance  if  you  would  see  Conrad's  real  per- 
spective. That  excellent  animal  is  presented  with  the 
greatest  kindliness  but  without  any  of  the  anthropo- 
morphic sentiment  with  which  Galsworthy  would 
have  pictured  him.  For  the  purposes  of  Conrad's 
art,  a  dog,  however  charming,  is  still  a  dog.  It  may 
play  a  significant  part  (in  a  sense  a  dog  incident  is 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  o]- 

the  pivot  of  both  Lord  Jim  and  Chance),  as  the  piam. 
in  The  Secret  Agent  does,  but  that  is  owine:  to  its  effect 
on  the  characters,  not  to  any  inherent  capacity  in 
itself. 

<  In  his  choice  of  titles  Conrad  has  been,  at  times, 
singularly  happy  and  at  times  singularly  unfortunate! 
What  could  be  better  than  Chance,  Youth,  "  Tu- 
morrow."  What  could  be  worse  than  Lord  Jim  or 
Nostromo  !  Nostromo  is  particularly  bad.  That  thi^ 
most  unattractive  title  should  cover  this  most  extra- 
ordinary book  is  a  real  subject  for  ironical  lauqhter. 
Nostromo — why,  it  conveys  less  than  nothing  !  A 
thrilling  title  should  have  been  devised  for  this 
thrilling  and  beautiful  romance.  . 

For,  indeed,  the  more  I  study  Conrad  the  morr 
convinced  am  I  that  Nostromo  is.  by  far  his  greatest 
achievement.  To  read  this  book  with  understanding 
is  to  reach  the  highest  pinnacle  of  Conrad's  art — not 
perhaps  the  most  perfect,  but  the  highest,  the  most 
dazzling.  Here  aie  the  birth-throes  of  a  vast  creative 
energy,  the  flight  of  romance,  and  the  inward  \ision 
of  psychology.  But,  apart  from  Nostromo  we  can 
study  the  art  of  Conrad  most  suggestively  in  su<h 
novels  as  The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus,"  The  Secret 
Agent,  and  Chance,  and  in  such  short  stories  as  "  The 
Return,"  "  Youth,"  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  "  The  Evx\ 
of  the  Tether,"  "  Typhoon,"  "  Falk,"  "  To-morrow," 
"  The  Duel,"  "  A  Smile  of  Fortune,"  and  "  The  Secret 
Sharer."  Roughly  speaking,  these  are  his  most 
typical  and  most  original  achievements. 

Though  the  names  of  some  of  Conrad's  books  arc 
unsuccessful,  the  names  of  his  characters  and  of  liis 
imaginary  places  are  astonishingly  good.  They  cany 
that  sort  of  conviction  which  is  immediate  and  tina  . 
Think    of    such    surnames    as    MacW'lurr,    Hagberd 


218  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Jacobus,  Podmore,  Singleton,  Guzman  Bento, 
Monygham,  Verloc,  de  Banal,  Roderick  Anthony, 
such  names  of  places  as  Costaguana,  Sulaco,  Higuerota, 
Azuera,  Punta  Mala,  Pantai,  Batu  Bern. 

Indeed,  it  is  the  details  of  Conrad's  art  that  show, 
as  much  as  anything  else  does,  his  artistic  rectitude. 
In  the  first  chapter  of  this  book  I  said  a  few  words 
about  Conrad's  sense  of  duty  and  I  would  like  to 
supplement  them  here  in  relation  to  his  art.  No  one 
who  studies  Conrad's  art  can  fail  to  see  that  behind 
it  all  there  lies  an  austere  and  pitiless  conscience. 
An  agony  of  creation  has  gone  to  every  line.^  In 
a  work  like  Nostromo  one  is  even  aware  of  a  huge 
unwritten  volume — a  volume  enclosing  the  whole 
history  of  Costaguana.  For  books  such  as  NGstromo 
are  merely  the  essence  of  a  titanic  imaginative  effort. 
It  is  said  that  Turgenev  wrote  his  novels  at  length 
and  then  cut  them  down  to  their  present  modest 
proportions,  and,  in  a  similar  sense,  we  feel  that 
Conrad's  published  works  are  but  the  gist  of  his 
profound  conceptions.  It  is  this  tireless  and  earnest 
preoccupation,  this  ascetic  faithfulness  to  an  ideal, 
which  is  the  root  of  artistic  morality.  We  know 
from  Some  Reminiscences  what  Conrad  underwent 
when,  during  the  blind  horror  of  creating  Nostromo, 
a  lady  observed  to  him  that  "  it  must  be  perfectly 
delightful  "  to  sit  all  day  writing  novels.  It  was  as 
though  the  end  of  the  world  had  come.  And  we 
can  enter  into  his  emotions  if  we  have  read  his 
books.  For,  as  Flaubert's  books  do,  they  give 
signs  of  a  conflict  as  devastating  and  terrible  as 
any  conflict  could  be — not  obviously,  you  understand, 
but  beneath  the  surface  of  their  romantic  and  ironical 
exterior. 

In  his  earlier  books  Conrad's  imagination  sometimes 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  219 

soars  out  of  his  grasp  though  it  is  for  ever  being  brought 
baclTto  earth  by  the  magnetism  of  his  art,  but  in  liis 
l^ter^books  it  is  always  under  control^  ]^ut  all  throu^'li 
his  works  he  gives  numerous  hints  of  an  exquisite 
nicety  of  artistic  perception.  That  is  why  his  few 
false  steps  do  jar  upon  us  so  persistently.  When,  in 
*'  Heart  of  Darkness  "  the  doctor  requests  Marlow 
to  allow  him  to  take  the  dimensions  of  his  head  beciiusf 
"  he  always  asks  leave,  in  the  interests  of  science, 
to  measure  the  crania  of  those  going  out  there,"  we 
feel,  at  once,  that  it  is  too  far-fetched,  just  as  we  feel 
that  some  of  the  dithyrambic  passages  in  a  story  like 
"  The  Return  "  are  too  far-fetched.  These  are  just 
instances,  but,  at  any  rate,  they  are  instances  neces- 
sarily drawn  from  his  earlier  work. 
-  As  an  artist,  Conrad  assumes  a  definite  position 
between  his  characters  and  his  readers,  a  position 
which,  as  I  said  before,  puts  all  three  parties  on  an 
equality.  Though  this  position  does,  I  think,  var>- 
in  his  different  books  (it  is  now  more  aloof  than  it 
was),  still  it  never  varies  during  a  book.  He  does 
not  bewilder  us  by  a  change  of  front.  (The  nearest 
approach  to  an  exception  is  '*  Freya  of  the  Seven 
Islands.")  Nor  does  he  bewilder  us  by  revealing  to 
us  his  style  as  a  self-conscious  mastery  of  technique 
'He  never  thrusts  himself  (this  I  have  also  said  before) 
between  the  reader  and  the  story.  Unfortunately 
that  is  quite  sufficient  to  prevent  some  from  admittini^ 
that  he  is  a  stylist  at  all.  And  yet  I  own  tkit  most 
people  who  consider  Stevenson  a  great  stylist  (who  are 
the  kind  of  persons  to  deny  style  to  Conrad)  acknow- 
ledge that,  say,  Turgenev  was  a  great  artist,  but  then 
they  think,  probably,  that  to  be  a  stylist  is  the  same 
thing  as  to  be  an  artist  (which  it  may  or  may  not  be), 
but  to  be  an  artist  is,  primarily,  to  be  a  wnteL_oi 


220  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


beautiful  simplicity  (which  is  one  kind^of  artist, 
certainly,  but  only  one).  You  can  always  refute  or 
substantiate  such  arguments  by  concrete  examples. 
For  instance,  Ruskin  is  a  stylist  but  no  artist,  Flaubert 
is  a  stylist  and  an  artist,  Hawthorne  is  an  artist  but 
not  much  of  a  stylist,  Turgenev  is  an  artist  and  a 
stylist.  And  my  contention  is,  that  Conrad  is  both 
stylist  and  artist — but  more  equally  both  in  his  later 
than  in  his  earlier  work. 

James  Huneker  sa3^s  somewhere  : — 

"Conrad  takes  an  interest  in  everything  except  bad  art." 

(And,  of  course,  when  one  is  speaking  of  Conrad^ 
artjpne  has  to  remember  that,  in  its  genuine  meaning. 
it  includes  his  whole  work.  I  use  it  here  largely  in  the 
narrower  sense  for  the  obvious  reason  that  through  all 
mybook  I  have  been  discussing  it  in  the  broader  sense.) 
That  remark  of  Huneker's  shows  how  vital  is  his  craft 
to  a  man  like  Conrad.  Bad  art  is  the  one  thing  w^hich 
his  sympathy  cannot  embrace.  There  is  nothing  com- 
placent about  Conrad's  attitude  towards  literature — 
whether  his  own  or  anyone  else's.  His  aim  is  fixed 
upon  the  highest.  However  vexed  may  be  the 
question  of  his  achievement,  there  is  no  question  at 
all  as  to  his  intention.  That  nemesis  which  awaits  the 
satisfied  can  never  overtake  Conrad.  The  chief  danger 
I  can  forsee  will  arise  from  his  conscientiousness.  In 
his  desire  to  prepare  the  way,  to  create  a  con- 
vincing atmosphere,  he  tends  to  an  over-elaboration 
of  the  foreground.  But  he  has  far  too  secure  a  hold 
on  reality  ever  to  become  the  victim  of  his  own  person- 
ality, as  Henry  James  has  become.  Which  is  only  to 
repeat  once  again  that  the  true  artist  must  be  a  true 
XeaUstu 

It  is  necessary  to  have  clearly  in  mind  this  broader 


CONRAD  AS  ARTIST  ni 


view  of  art  in  regard  to  any  writerVvvork^_or^^ 
wise  w^are_onIy  too  likelyl^ninaeresti^^  ^>,tt 
wnterswEoarFn^ 

For  that  is  just  as  bad  as  the  other  popiHaTcxtrcmc. 
which  is  to  treat  every  writer  as  though  he  were  a 
moral  problem.  It  does  seem  to  me  that  to  worry 
over  the  incongruities  of  Shakespeare,  the  repetitions 
of  Shelley,  the  longueurs  of  Dostoievsky,  or  the  bad 
grammar  of  Whitman,  is  to  miss  the  whole  point. 
For  in  the  bigger  sense  such  men  of  genius  are  artists 
through  the  mighty  power  of  their  whole  personality. 
And  in  that  sense,  too,  as  well  as  in  the  other  sense. 
Conrad  also  is  an  artist,  riiis  ultimate  appeal  rests 
upon  the  unique  force  and  subtlety  of  his  imagination . 


CHAPTER  XI 

Conrad's  position  in  literature 

I  WILL  say  a  few  final  words  about  Conrad's  place  in 
literature.  I  have  no  wish  to  dogmatise — these 
estimates  of  living  writers  are,  in  their  very  essence, 
highly  '^tentative — nor  is  it  my  intention  to  try  and 
**  place  "  Conrad,  thus  undoing  what  I  said  in  my 
opening  chapter,  but  without  going  into  prophetic 
extremes  I  can  state  a  reasonable  opinion.  (There  is 
all  the  difference  in  the  world  between  a  definite  label 
and  a  comparative  judgment.)  I_do  not  think  I  am 
exaggerating  when  I  say  that  1  Qonrad  ranks_  with 
the  great  romantic  realists  of  modern  times^  ,  lii 
a  sense  Ee  is  far  easier  to  estimate  justly  than  other 
English  writers  of  his  calibre  because  he  does  belong 
to  a  tradition,  whereas  most  of  the  big  English  novelists 
start,  so  to  speak,  from  the  chaotic  background  of  a 
hundred  experiments.  But,  I  repeat,  only  in  a  sense. 
For  it  depends  to  some  extent  on  an  appreciation  of 
Continental  literature.  To  anyone  steeped  entirely 
in  English  literature  Conrad  must  be  almost  as  obscure 
as  Meredith  would  be  to  a  Japanese — not  transparently 
obscure  like  Meredith,  but  subtly  obscure.  For  the 
difficulty  in  Conrad  is  not  a  verbal  difficulty.  It  is 
quite  possible  to  understand  every  word  in  Conrad 
and  to  miss  the  wholejpoint.  He  puts  up  no  danger 
signals,  as  it  were.  ^Meredith  constantly  wraps  up 
a  simple  idea  in  complicated  language,  whexgas^Conrad 
d£:^:elQps  his  moy^t  (felic^^^  ?ii^  prnfmi^^  .psychology 

222  -^ 


CONRAD^S  POSITION  IN  LITERATURE    2i33 

in  sentences  that  no  one  could  misunderstand.  In 
other  words,  the  difference  between  them  is  not  just 
that  which  there  must  naturally  be  between  tvvo  men 
of  outstanding  power,  it  is  also  a  fundamental  and 
racial  difference  in  point  of  view. 

Meredith  had  the  typical  English  qualities  in  s<) 
brilliant  and  excessive  a  form  that  one  might  almost 
beUeve  he  is  not  EngUsh  at  all  instead  of  realising  that 
he  is,  in  truth,  the  most  representative  Englishman 
of  his  generation.  On  the  other  hand  the  \'ery  fact 
of  Conrad's  writing  in  Enghsh  is  obviously  misleading. 
Forfh^e  is  no  more  completely  English  in  his  art  than 
he  is  in  his  nationality!)  Sis  tradition  is  largely  the 
Franco-Slav  tradition^-and  that  is  quite  outside  the 
venue  of  the  English  genius.  The  extraordinary 
versatility  of  the  English  mind  has,  in  fiction,  dissipated 
itself  in  innumerable  eccentricities  and  originalities 
of  the  surface.  There  is  no  school  in  England  which 
has  general  acceptance  from  the  mature  insight  of 
the  whole  nation  just  because  there  is  no  school  whit  h 
is  founded  upon  a  national  view  of  character.  When 
Flaubert  wrote  Madame  Bovary  or  when  Tolstoy  wn»tc 
Anna  Karenina,  France  and  Russia  realised  at  once 
that  here,  without  exaggeration,  the  typical  life  of 
their  countries  lay  before  them.  But  in  England 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  high  and  serious  realism. 
/Our  immense  creative  ability  is  rich  in  ideas,  in 
lyricism,  and  in  humour,  but  it  lacks  psychological! 
intensity.  And,  in  my  opinion,  that  is  the  one  abso-1 
lutely  needful  thing  to  the  making  of  a  great  novel., 
If  one  looks  closely  into  it  one  sees,  I  think,  that  the 
Continental  tradition  (I  mean  the  tradition  started 
by'Stendhal,  continued  by  Balzac,  and  develojx'd  by 
Flaubert'  and  the  Russians)  is  not  really  a  way  ol 
approaching  the  novelist's  art  so  much  as  thr  wa>- 


224  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

It  is  getting  down  to  the  bedrock  of  imaginative  life 
— and  surely  there  is  nothing  beyond  that. 

To  the  extent,  then,  that  we  admit  this  and  have 
studied  the  forerunners  we  will  find  Conrad  easy  to 
understand — easy,  that  is  to  say,  to  get  en  rapport 
with.  (The  complete  understanding  of  his  characters 
is,  of  course,  a  matter  of  close  individual  sympathy — 
but,  after  all,  that  can  only  arise  from  close  understand- 
ing of  the  point  of  view.)  The  more  congenial  Conrad 
is  to  one  the  more  strangely  familiar  will  his  creations 
seem.  For,  as  with  all  the  artists  of  his  class,  the 
invincible  reality  of  his  figures  is  only  enhanced  by 
the  innumerable  subtle  touches  in  which  they  are 
painted.  We  grasp  them  through  their  complexities, 
though  the  total  result  is  simple  and  inevitable. ; 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  are  steeped  in  the  English 
method,  Conrad  may  appear  either  fruitlessly  obvious 
or  as  one  floundering  in  a  morass  of  his  own  making. 
It  is  quite  true  that  he  is  famous  in  England  as  a 
psychologist,  but  it  is  in  the  same  w^ay  as  such  a  writer 
as  Meredith  is  famous — as  a  man  who  understands 
the  principles  of  action  rather  than  as  a  man  who 
understands  the  principles  of  creation.  Meredith 
could  tell  you  exactly  how  a  certain  type  of  woman 
in  a  certain  class  of  society  in  a  certain  era  of  the 
nineteenth  century  would  be  likely  to  act  in  certain 
circumstances,  but  his  woman  would  not  be  a  real 
woman  (or  rather,  her  reality  would  be  faltering  and 
uncertain),  she  would  be  a  typical  woman.  But 
Conrad  would  create  the  woman  herself.  In  his 
sparkling  gallery  of  feminine  portraits  Meredith  never 
came  near  achieving  a  Winnie  Verloc.  And  in  saying 
this  I  am  not  wishing  to  decry  Meredith.  Few  would 
deny  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  men  of  his 
century.     But  the  fact  is,  he  was  simply  too  clever. 


CONRAD'S  POSITION  IN  LITERATURE   225 

Jane  Austen,  who  had  no  philosophy,  will  long  outlast 
the  creator  of  The  Egoist,  and  Conrad,  who  has  the 
artist's  aloofness  from  problems,  has  imagined  a  few 
figures  which  will,  I  believe,  be  known  when  nearly 
all  the  novels  of  Meredith  are  mouldering  on  forgotten 
shelves.  One  could  write  a  tragic  essay  on  the 
futility  of  cleverness  in  art.  It  is  the  wliisper  of 
the  devil  in  its  most  insidious  form.  And  it  is  this 
scintillating  obtrusion  of  personality  that  is  the  canker 
of  modern  English  literature.  I  do  not  say  that  it 
cannot  be  defended  from  one  point  of  view,  but  I  do 
say  that  it  cannot  be  defended  from  the  point  of  view 
of  realism  inaction. 

Moreover,  ^Conrad  seldom  annoys  us  by  expressing^^ 
his  own  opinions^  whether  it  be  in  the  childish  manner 
of  Thackeray,  the  conceited  manner  of  Shaw,  or  the 
irritable  manner  of  Strindberg.  When  he  does  reveal 
himself  he  does  it  as  Turgenev,  himself,  did  it  occasion- 
ally, with  dignified  and  quick  reserve.  Of  cours«\ 
as  all  writers  do,  he  shows  likes  and  dislikes  - 
but  that  is  a  different  thing  altogether.  No  one 
was  less  personal  than  Flaubert,  no  one  was  nK^re 
biased.  ^ 

And  thus  it  is  I  consider  that  Conrad's  fame  in 
England,  really  considerable  as  it  is,  is  nothing  to 
what  it  will  be^,  It  is  astonishing  to  hear  liis  name 
mentioned  in  the  same  breath  as  that  of  a  dozen 
Hving  EngHsh  writers.  Indeed,  it  is  not  only  astonish- 
ing but  it  is  so  incongruous  that  it  is  laughable,  j-or 
it  is  not  so  much  that  he  is  abler  than  his  contem- 
poraries (I  doubt  whether  he  is  so  obviously  clever 
as  several  of  them)  as  that  he  is  so  immeasurably 
greater."^  And  greatness  in  literature,  as  in  any  other 
art,  is'^'something  beyond  conscious  ability.  Who 
can  summarise  it  ?      It  is,   at  the   same  time,  ap- 


•^26  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

parent  and  elusive,  and  though  its  qualities  can  be 
analysed,  its  vitalising  force  is  as  intangible  as  a 
perfume. 

But  when  we  come  to  ask  ourselves  what  Conrad's 
position  in  English  literature,  as  apart  from  his  position 
amongst  his  English  contemporaries,  really  is,  then 
we  are  face  to  face  with  a  very  difficult  question. 
For  instance,  Meredith's  name  has  cropped  up  in 
this  chapter,  and  some  minor  comparisons  between 
him  and  Conrad  have  been  made,  but  how  can  one 
really  compare  two  men  whose  aims  are  so  divergent  ? 
It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no  common  basis  and  that 
almost  the  only  way  to  do  it  at  all  justly  would  be  by 
a  broad  generalisation.  And  one  could  only  estimate 
Conrad's  position  in  English  literature  as  a  whole  on 
such  a  system  of  generalising.  We  have  no  Sainte- 
Beuve  in  England  not  only  because  there  is  little 
scientific  spirit  in  our  criticism  but  also  because  there 
is  little  of  the  ordered  spirit  in  our  creative  art.  And 
this  spirit  of  order,  this  "  tradition,"  gains  in  depth  of 
originality  from  what  it  loses  in  variety  of  treatment. 
It  concentrates  upon  one  end  instead  of  spreading 
itself  in  a  score  of  directions.  It  would  be  easier  for 
a  Frenchman  to  understand  Conrad  than  it  would  be 
for  an  Englishman.  For  the  Frenchman's  intelligence, 
keen  and  subtle  as  it  is,  is  fixed  upon  actuality  in  a 
way  that  would  appear  almost  wooden  to  an  English- 
man— the  French  have  their  "  tradition  "  in  their  blood. 

*'I  doubt  whether  in  England  Conrad  will  ever  rank 
with  the  great  masters.     There  is  none  of  that  queer 

"^  national  affinity  between  him  and  other  English 
writers  of  his'  time  that  we  see,  let  us  say,  between 
the  great  Victorians  or,  indeed,  between  almost  all 
English  writers.  He  is  unique  in  an  alien  sense. 
That  he  will  be  appreciated  more  and  more  I  am  sure 


CONRAD'S  POSITION  IN  LITERATUHi: 


00 


is  the  case,  I  only  doubt  whether  he  will  ever  take 
his  place  among  the  generally  accepted  mastersj'w  -- 

It  is  singular  to  reflect  that  Conrad,  born  a  Slav 
and  knowing  French  perfectly,  should  finish  by  writing 
in  English.  For  the  Slavs,  the  Enghsh,  and  tlie  VtcikKs 
are  the  three  races  that  have  made  modern  tictioat 
Yes,  the  English  as  well  as  the  French  and  the  Slav. 
For,  even  though  one  believes  that  the  English  prodi- 
gaUty  has  resulted  in  mistaken  ideals,  one  nuist  not 
underestimate  the  richness  of  the  vein.  Insularity 
is  not  only  a  term  of  reproach,  it  is  also  a  geographical 
expression.  If  we  lose  in  one  way,  which  is  the  best 
way,  still  we  gain  in  many  another.  There  is  even  a 
certain  merit  in  our  lack  of  perfection.  For  in  the 
perfect  there  is  a  touch  of  weariness  which  is  like  the 
first  breath  of  decay.  One  could  discuss  such  a  point 
back  and  forwards  for  ever,  so  I  will  not  follow  it  up  by 
bringing  the  names  of  Fielding,  Scott,  and  Dickens 
into  juxtaposition  with  those  of  the  great  European 
realists,  but  will  leave  the  argument  to  the  imagination. 
But  to  return — whatever  one  may  mean  by  insular, 
one  cannot  get  away  from  the  fact  that  that  is  what 
the  English  are ;  in  other  words  they  are  a  peopk' 
apart. 

And  yet  I  want  to  say  something  here  which,  thoui^h 
it  may  seem  to  contradict  much  that  I  have  said  before, 
is,  nevertheless,  perfectly  true.  And  it  is  this,  that 
[although  Conrad's  "  tradition  "  is  more  Franco-Slavish 
than  English,  yet  he  could  never  have  written  in 
any  other  language  save  the  English  language—could 
not  have  done  it,  in  fact,  any  more  than  he  could 
have  been  a  sailor  in  any  other  service  save  the  I'.nijli-h 
service.  To  realise  this  clearly  is  essential  and  it  is 
rather  bewildering.  It  knocks  a  good  many  thcn'-'s 
on  the  head.     Conrad  has  long  been  a  great  stud^  ;.i 


228  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

<and  lover  of  the  English  novelists  and  though  his 
novels  are,  essentially,  not  the  English  jiovel  of 
character  (which  generally  irnplies  exaggeration)  still 
they  are  quickened  by  a  love  of  English  life.  And 
remember  that  Conrad's  ideas  and  mind  developed 
late  and  almost  entirely  under  the  influence  of  English 
seamen  and  English  literature.  He  is  imbued  with 
the  English  atmosphere  in  a  genuine  sense.  No, 
though  Conrad  is  not  English  in  his  art  he  does  belong 
definitely  to  English  literature,  for  he  would  have  been 
dumb  in  any  other  language  but  the  English^^  This 
is  not  merely  an  argument  to  fit  the  facts,  it  is  an 

V  absolute  and  incontrovertible  truth. 

^  However,  when  we  say  that  Conrad  belongs  to  a 
Franco-Slav  tradition  we  have  not  said  sufficient. 
As  a  matter  of  truth  there  is  a  deal  of  misapprehension 
as  to  the  Slavonic  influence  in  Conrad's  work — and 
the  French  influence,  too,  is  not  to  be  traced  properly 
without  care.  Because  Conrad  is  a  Pole  people 
immediately  liken  him  to  the  Russians.  But  Poles 
are  not  Russians  any  more  than  Englishmen  are 
Americans.  There  is  a  common  bond  but  there  is 
also  a  common  antipathy.  Conrad  has  the  Slavonic 
realism  but  he  has  not  the  Russian  mysticism;  The 
one  is  as  natural  to  him  as  the  other  is  Toreign. 
Observe,  that  the  Russian  he Js  nearest_to  in  spirit, 
Turgenev,  is,  himself,  the  most  French  of  the  Russians. 
As  to  Gogol,  Lermontov,  Tolstoy,  Dostoievsky, 
Tchekov,  Gorky,  etc.,  a  great  deal  of  their  work  would 
decidedly  lie  quite  outside  his  sympathy.  For, 
indeed,  there  is  not  only  a  natural  antipathy  between 
Poles  and  Russians  but  there  ^s  also  a  political  anti- 
pathy, which  tends,  very  naturally,  to  make  every- 
thing Russian  offensive  to  a  Pole.  An  imaginative 
Englishman  would  be  more  likely  to  appreciate  the 


CONRAD^S  POSITION  IN  LITERATURE   229 

mysticism  of  a  Dostoievsky  on  the  one  hand  or  of  a 
Whitman  on  the  other  than  would  a  Pole— who  would 
look  at  such  things  more  in  the  manner  of  a  French- 
man. And  yet  Conrad  is  no  more  entirely  French 
than  is  Turgenev.  /flis  romantic  spirit  has  a  passionate 
basis  which  is  as  far  from  the  frothy  lyricism  of  a 
Victor  Hugo  as  it  is,from  the  sombre  pessimism  of  a 
Gustavo  Flauberty  Hugo  and  Flaubert  were  both 
romantics  but  neither  of  them  had  that  quality  of 
Slavonic  melancholy  which  is,  at  once,  full  of  behcf 
in  goodness  and  full  of  despair  at  life.  Hugo  bclit-vcd 
in  goodness,  Flaubert  believed  in  despair,  but  neither 
of  them  believed  in  both.  For  that  double  belief, 
held  without  any  of  the  fundamental  mockery  with 
which  such  a  man  as  Anatole  France  might  be  said 
to  hold  it,  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  the  Slav  mind. 
The  dual  personality  is  the  heritage  of  the  North. 

All  the  same,  if  one  had  to  decide  the  question.  I 
should  be  inclined  to  say  that  Conrad  owes  more  to 
the  French  than  he  does  to  the  Russians,  and  prob- 
ably more  to  one  Frenchman^  Flaubert^than.  to  anyone 
else.  Conrad's  attitude  to  life  resembles  in  scvt-ral 
ways  that  of  Flaubert  and  his  attitude  to  art  is  almost 
ideatical.  I  have  said  in  a  former  chapter  that  the 
mosLconscious  influence  in  Conrad Js  the  influence  of 
Flaubert  and  I  repeat  it  here.  In  both  there  is  a 
tireless  preoccupation  with  their  subject  and  their 
style— a  completeness  which  is,  at  once,  fervid  and  rare. 
(I  need  hardly  state  again  that  this  does  not  imply 
that  they  are  alike— all  it  implies  is  a  similarity  of 
aim.)  The  difference  is  that  Flaubert  apix-ars  always 
to  have  been  mature,  whereas  the  phases  of  Conrad  s 
progression  are  visible.  Moreover,  Conrad  has  a  sense 
of  humour  and  sympathy  which  would  for  ever  keep 
him  from  Flaubert's  hatred  of  a  class  qua  class.     In 


230  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Flaubert's  first  novel,  Madame  Bovary,  dislike  of  the 
bourgeoisie  is  strongly  marked,  but  in  his  last,  Bouvard 
et  Pecuchet,  it  has  become  a  painful  obsession.  The 
futility  of  the  world  is  an  ever-present  theme  in  both 
writers,  but  that  men  are  universally  stupid  or  vile 
might  be  accepted  by  Flaubert,  the  Frenchman,  but 
could  never  be  accepted  by  Conrad,  the  Slav. 

But,  indeed,  the  Russian  novelists  had  obsessions 
of  their  own,  although  they  were  obsessions  of  a 
different  class.  The  use  of  the  word  obsession  in 
regard  to  them  has  a  wider  meaning  than  it  has  in 
Flaubert's  case.  One  feels  a  narrow  blindness  in 
Flaubert  on  the  subject  of  the  bourgeoisie,  whereas 
the  Russians  were  always  supported  by  their  philo- 
sophy. Still  it  often  amounts  to  much  the  same. 
The  omniscience  and  sadness  of  love  obsessed 
Turgenev,  the  doctrine  of  forgiveness  through  suffer- 
ing obsessed  Dostoievsky,  the  horrors  of  culture 
obsessed  Tolstoy.  But  as  to  Conrad,  he,  essentially, 
is  not  a  mystical  Russian,  but  a  man  of  the  world 
untouched  by  fanaticism  of  any  sofTT^^TSali?  one  of 
the  causes,  probably;- why  iTg"  is  notalready  more 
famous!^  The  reason  is  easy  to  follow  and  even  to 
sympathise  with.  Impartiality  has  the  appearance 
of  a  negative  asset  and  artistic  perfection  lacks  the 
inspired  glow  of  faith.  In  his  own  way  Henry  James 
is  as  great  an  artist  as  Turgenev,  but  his  works  will 
never  live  like  Turgenev' s  because  he  is  too  restrained 
and  logical  to  be  dominated  by  anything  as  Turgenev 
was  dominated  by  the  thought  of  love.  In  the  long 
run  it  is  Conrad's  force  rather  than  his  sanity  that 
will  give  him  his  final  position. 

But  to  talk  once  more  of  Flaubert  and  Conrad. 
There  is  something  national  as  well  as  personal  in  the 
Frenchman's  influence,  for,  quite  apart  from  Flaubert, 


CONRAD-S  POSITION  IN  UTERATl  lU:   VA 

Conrad's  work  shows  an  inherent  s\Tnpathy  with 
the  French  position.  In  certain  phases  his  st-ntr :  • 
reveal  a  thoroughly  Gallic  impatience  of  the  y,:;.. - 
fluous  word— it  is  much  more  often  true  of  his  later 
than  of  his  earlier  writings.  Just  as  in  the  tiniest 
sketch  by  Maupassant  there  is  an  air  of  cUstinction 
which  comes  from  a  choice  of  words  and  an  economy 
of  language  under  exquisite  qpntrol  so  is  it  with 
Conrad's  most  finished  work.  He  has,  in  fact,  the 
French  lucidity  of  vision  thougli,  in  expression,  it  is 
often  clouded  by  the  vehemence  of  his  language  or 
imagination.  But,  as  I  said  before,  Conrad  has 
nothing  of  the  Slavonic  mysticism.  In  such  a  thing 
he  is  French  to  his  finger  tips.  ButTliougli  he  is  no 
mystic  he  has  the  French  love  and  power  over  the 
mysterious.  Who  is  more  popular  in  France,  the 
mystical  Walt  Whitman  or  the  mysterious  Edgar 
Poe  ?  (The  answer  is  obvious.  Bazalgette  does  not 
weigh  in  the  balance  beside  Baudelaire  and  Mal- 
larme.)  This  fascination  of  the  mysterious  is  pro- 
nounced in  nearly  all  the  French  writers  of  the  last 
hundred  3/ears,  in  Balzac,  in  Hugo,  in  Flaubert,  in 
Maupassant,  in  Anatole  France.  And  in  the  same 
way,  curiously  enough,  we  find  it  in  the  most 
cosmopolitan  of  English  speaking  writers— Henry 
James  and  Joseph  Conrad.  "  The  Turn  of  the  Screw." 
and  "  Heart  of  Darkness,"  have  that  touch  of  th«« 
macabre  dear  to  the  Latin  heart. 

/    And  Conrad's  work  shows,   too.   the   l-rench  pre- 
judices   and    the    French   sympathiesr-swift   dislike. 

u  generous  enthusiasm,  hatred  of  cant  or  fanaticism. 

(  an  intense  regard  for  the  nuances  of  honour.  H 
Flaubert  has  actually  affected  Conrad  more  than 
any  other  French  writer  one  must  still  allow  for  the 
influence  of  M^^upassant  ("The  Idiots"  shows  that 


232  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

demonstrably),  whose  unrivalled  powers  of  observation 
are  one  of  the  artistic  wonders  of  the  world,  and  of 
Anatole  France,  (are  not  he  and  Conrad  alike  ex- 
quisitely ironical  ?)  whose  consummate  ease  of  expres- 
sion hides  a  real  intellectual  profundity. 

These  three  French  writers,  with  the  Russian 
Turgenev,  and  the  American  Henry  James,  have,  I 
think,  been  of  more  immediate  importance  to  Conrad 
than  any  other  of  the  moderns.  (The  influence  of 
the  older  writers  is  a  question  beyond  my  scope,  but 
one  can  argue  with  some  degree  of  certainty  that  any 
work  belonging  to  a  great  tradition  has  its  obvious 
roots  in  antiquity.  There  is  nothing  consciously 
archaic  about  Conrad,  whose  writings  are  as  free  from 
the  literary  affectations  of  another  age  as  they  are 
from  its  spirit,  but  they  evince,  nevertheless,  the  germ 
of  continuity.  It  would  probably  be  easier,  for 
instance,  to  trace  Conrad's  indebtedness  to  the  past 
than  George  Sorrow's.)  But,  of  course,  the  im- 
portance of  these  five  people  I  have  mentioned  is  not 
to  be  exaggerated.  Originality  such  as  Conrad's  has 
an  incalculable  element  in  it  that  asks  nothing  of 
any  outside  influence.  As  Ford  Hueffer  observes  in 
his  recent  study  of  Henry  James  : — 

Mr  Henry  James  has^  of  course,  his  share  of  the  talent 
which  can't  be  defined.  He  has,  that  is  to  say,  plenty  of 
personality  (Henry  James,  p.  14)— 

a  remark  which  might  equally  be  applied  to  Conrad. 
/Genius  may  be  directed  but  it  is  primarily  an  ele- 
mental force.  Conrad,  it  is  true,  owes  much  to 
Flaubert,  but  if  Flaubert  had  been  alive  he  might 
well  have  owed  much  to  Conrad.  The  debt  of  genius 
is  often  immense  but  it  is  never  basic.  For  the 
capacity  of  genius  is  the  capacity  of  originality. 


CONRAD'S  POSITION  IN  LITERATURE   233 

With  Conrad,  strictly  speaking,  England  first  enters 
the  "  tradition  "  of  Continental  literature,  althouijh 
Henry  James  had  prepared  her  for  the  change.  But 
there  is  just  that  indefinable  want  of  substance  about 
the  creations  of  Henry  James  which  precludes  him  from 
ranking  with  the  great  French  and  Russian  realists. 
But  Conrad's  finest  creations  have  the  inevitability 
of  Tolstoy's  figures.  However,  if  Conrad  is  the  first 
he  v^ill  perhaps,  also,  be  the  last  Englisli  realist  of  the 
Continental  type.  For  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  will 
found  any  school  in  England.  You  cannot  go  against 
the  spirit  of  a  country.  The  Continent  \nll  no  more 
become  Enghsh  than  England  will  become  Continental. 
Daudet  is  supposed  to  be  rather  English,  and  Meredith 
is  supposed  to  be  rather  French,  but  as  they  each  retain 
about  99  per  cent  of  their  own  nationality  the  idea 
of  a  literary  revolution  need  not  alarm  us.  If  Conrad 
is  really  Continental  it  is  because  he  actually  is  a 
Pole  and  not  an  Englishman.  His  English  sympathies 
are  personal  and  have  only  touched  his  art  apparently 
in  a  superficial  manner,  though  one  must  always 
remember  that  without  England  there  would  have 
been  no  Conrad.  It  is  true  that  if  he  had  written 
in  French  he  would  never  have  written  so  exuber- 
antly, but  then  the  French  language  is  a  precise- 
language  whilst  the  English  is  a  poetical  lan- 
guage. And  furthermore,  this  exuberance  is  to  a 
large  extent  a  personal  idiosyncrasy,  partly  due 
to  his  life  and  mainly  unaccountable,  as  are  all 
idiosyncrasies. 

It  is  certainly  the  case  that  Conrad  has  many 
EngHsh  sympathies  (his  love  of  the  sea  is.  in  its  pas- 
sionate form,  almost  an  exclusively  English  trait, 
and  the  very  fact  that  he  chose  England  as  his  home 
and  Enghsh  as  his  language  are  silently  eloquent). 


234  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

but  in  deep  conceptions  one  cannot  change  one's 
nationality.  In  artistic  ideals  the  Slav  is  infinitely 
nearer  the  French  point  of  view  than  the  English. 
And  so  Conrad's  French  sympathies  are  not  so  much 
an  appreciation  as  are  his  English  sympathies,  they 
are  an  instinctive  reflection  of  liimself .  In  such  sharp 
division  there  is  no  doubt  some  exaggeration  (for 
instance,  a  fierce  love  of  the  sea  might,  presumably, 
be  inherent  in  anyone  quite  apart  from  an  English 
inspiration) ,  but  in  making  divisions  there  must  always 
be  this  danger.  I  am  coining,  merely,  a  sufficiently 
accurate  generalisation. 

But,  to  sum' up,  it  does  seem  to  me,  as  I  said  at 
first,  that  Conrad  must  in  future  rank  hi^hamongst 
the  creators  of  the  modernT'fiction  of  romantic  realism. 
There  is  no  universal  agreement  as~  to  the  order  of' 
great  men  (artistic  differences  make  as  much  bad 
blood  as  a  war  in  the  Balkans)  and  to  discuss  whether 
Conrad  bulks  more  or  less  than  others  of  his  class 
would  be  fruitless.  For,  sooner  or  later,  all  such 
discussions  leave  the  critical  rails  and  merge  into 
obscure  personal  opinions  which  are  apt  to  be  as 
assertive  as  a  religious  belief  and  are  often  quite  as 
illogical.  But  that  the  author  of  Youth,  of  Nostromo, 
of  Chance  is  securely  with  the  really  great  artists, 
leaves,  in  my  opinion,  no  matter  for  doubt.  And 
yet  this  romantic  and  most  thrilling  writer  will  always 
be  partially  withheld  from  us  because,  beneath  all  the 
more  obvious  faults  and  qualities  ^  his  ^vorlr;  there 
is  an  unappeasable  melancholy.  His  faith'  is  too 
elusive  for  him  ever  to  be  popular.  In  such  a  thing 
he  is  nearer  to  Flaubert  than^o  the  Russians.  And 
yet  the  subtlest  creations  of  Conrad  have  a  breath 
of  life  in  them  that  is  hardly  to  be  found  outside  of 
Tolstoy   or   Dostoievsky.     In   that   consideration   he 


CONRAD'S  POSITION  IN  LITERATURE    235 

comes  closer  to  the  Russians  than  to  tlie   French. 
So  the  ball  is  tossed  from  side  to  side. 

But  all  such  comparisons  are  \'ain  in  the  end  if 
they  lead  us  to  minimise  the  creative  genius  of  the 
writer  himself.  What  do  categories  amount  to  after 
all  ?  They  are  only  the  dust  of  criticism.  Great m-ss 
is  something  infinitely  more  precious  and  unanalysable 
than  the  qualities  by  which  it  is  expressed.  There 
are  writers  such  as  Meredith— to  mention  him  once 
more — who  lay  themselves  open  to  almost  every 
critical  objection  and  who  are  yet  transparently  great. 
(For  no  one  who  had  such  a  power  of  grasping  a  situa- 
tion could  be  called  anything  else.)  And,  in  whatso- 
ever guise  it  appears,  genius  is  its  own  recommendation. 
Time  alone  can  settle  ultimate  values,  but  extra- 
ordinary merit  is  discernible  at  once.  To  read  Conrad 
and  deny  him  that  would  seem  to  me  like  a  con- 
tradiction in  terms.  For,  in  Conrad,  it  is  easy,  even 
for  those  who  find  most  blemishes,  to  realise  the 
unmistakable  signs  of  distinction.  In  him  England 
has  helped  to  produce  one  of  these  unaccountable 
literary  forces  whose  influence  it  is  impossible  to 
foresee.  That  is  all  that  need  concern  us  at  the 
moment. 


LIST  OF 
CONRAD'S  PUBLISHED  BOOKS 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 

The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  :  Memories  and  Impressions.    (Mcthucn. 

1906. 
Some  Reminiscences.     (Nash.)     1912. 

NOVELS 

Almayer's  Folly  :    A   Story  of  an  Eastern  lUvcr.     (Unwin.) 

1895. 
An  Outcast  of  the  Islands.     (Unwin.)     1896. 
The  Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus  "  :  a  Talc  of  the  Sea.     (Hcnc- 

mann.)     1898. 
Lord  Jim  :   a  Tale.     (Blackwood.)     1900. 
Nostromo  :   a  Tale  of  the  Seaboard.     (Harper.)     1^)03. 
The  Secret  Agent:   a  S^mple  Talc.     (Methuen.)     iW- 
Under  Western  Eyes.     (Methuen.)     191 1- 
Chance:  a  Tale  in  Two  Parts.     (Methuen.)     191^ 

SHORT  STORIES 

Tales  of  Unrest.     (Unwin.)     1898.  ..  ^^  ^^^ 

("  Karain :    a  Memory-.         U^e  V^       '         . 

.'  "  Th^  -Roturn.         riic  l^gooa.  ; 
of  Progress,'       The  Kcuiru,  ^ 


238 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Youth  :  a  Narrative  :    and  two  other  Stories.     (Blackwood.) 
1902. 

("Youth:    a  Narrative,"  "Heart  of  Darkness,"  "The 

End  of  the  Tether.") 
Typhoon  :  and  other  Stories.     (Heinemann.)     1903. 

("  Typhoon,"  "  Amy  Foster,"  "  Falk  :   a  Reminiscence," 

"  To-morrow.") 

A  Set  of  Six.     (Methuen.)     1908. 

("  Caspar  Ruiz,"  "  The  Informer,"  "  The  Brute,"  "  An 
Anarchist,"  "  The  Duel,"  "  II  Conde.") 

'Twixt  Land  and  Sea  :   Tales.     (Dent.)     191 2. 

("  A  Smile  of  Fortune,"  "  The  Secret  Sharer,"  "  Freya 
of  the  Seven  Islands.") 


NOVELS  IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  FORD 
MADOX  HUEFFER 


llie  Inheritors  :   an  Extravagant  Story.     (Heinemann.) 
Romance  :  a  Novel.     (Smith,  Elder.)     1903. 


1901. 


INDEX 


I 


Almayer's  Folly,  5,  18,  28-30,  32, 

86,  94,  no,  121,  122,  127,  156^ 

^57.  193.  207  ;   quoted,  86-7 

'  Amy    Foster,"    53,    54,    56-7, 

152,   165,   181  ;    quoted,  Ss 

Anarchist,"  "  An,  57,  58-9,  61, 
164 

Anna  Kavenina,   223 

Arabia  Deserta,   196 

Art,  Conrad's,  unity  of,  75,  96, 
143.  197.  198  ;  concerned 
witli  an  actual  world,  199, 
215  ;  very  realistic,  199-200  ; 
dramatic  intensity  of,  200-7  •" 
can  be  studied  in  his  ter- 
minations, 207-8  ;  thrilling, 
210  ;  its  sharply-defined  edges, 
210-1 1 ;  reasons  for  long  narra- 
tive conversations  in,  210-13  ; 
its  vitality  and  unexpected- 
ness, 213;  finished,  214;  its 
aims  constant,  214 ;  very 
eloquent,  216  ;  treatment  of 
inanimate  objects  and  ani- 
mals, 216-7  ;  good  and  bad 
in  titles,  217  ;  good  in  names, 
217-8  ;  brilliant  in  details, 
218  ;  balanced,  219 ;  high 
ideal  of,  220 

Atmosphere,  Conrad's,  masterly, 
66  ;  romantic,  66-7,  88-9 ; 
thrilling,  69-70  ;  creative,  71  ; 
melancholy,  73  ;  intensely 
imagined,  74-7 ;  sometimes 
ironic,  77  ;  symbolic,  77-8  ; 
magical  in  relation  to  the 
sea,  78-82  ;  noticeable  in  his 
figures,  74,  82-3,  loi  ;  opu-  ' 
lent,  84-5  ;  pervasive,  86 ; 
desire  to  create  convincingly 
makes  his  novels  roundabout, 

214-5 
Austen,  Jane,  144,  161,  225 


Autobiographical  l)a.sw  in  Con- 
rad's  fiction,  25,  103,  215 

Balzac.  141.  147.  214.  223.  231 

Barclay,  riorencf,  7 
Baudelaire,  2\\ 
Bazalgctte,  L6on,  2^1 
Beckford,  William.  "161 
Belloc,  Hilairc.  170 
Bennett,  Arnold,  9,  i^ 
Benson,  E.  F..  7 
Bergeret  Scries,  The,  86 
Blake.  William,  99 
Borrow,  George,  232 
Bouvard  et  Picuchet,  2  \o 
Bradley,  A.  C,  98  (quotcti) 
Brute."  "  The,  57,  58,  61.  \t^t 
Butler.  Samuel,   170 

Caine.  Hall,  7 
Carroll.  Lewis,  21  "^ 

Chance,  17.  18,  45-7.  >:,  - 
97.  no,  113-4,  120,  \2  \ 
154-5.  iS'"^.  i'^2.  173.  KS.;.  ;  ,,. 

195.    212,    215.    216.   2X7.   234; 

quoted,  87,  158,  174 
Characters    in    Conrad's    !-•• 
(apart     generally     frur-.i 
ferenccs       in       quotati     ■ 
Abdulla,    29,     30.     31.     i:.- 
Aissa.      31.      ^5^1'      Ali'v. 
Captain  Jasixr.  02.  63.  i.*"  •;. 
153,  169;  Almaycr.  2\.  I'^-t. 

30.  31.  127:  Almaycr,  Mr^. 
30 ;  Almavcr.  Nma.  2<>,  v\ 
156  ;  Anarchist."  "  An.  5'<  «j . 
Anthony.  Captain  Kixlcn.  k. 
45.  4^'i^^4'  HO.  »54.  -«V 
Arsat.  49-50.  »^»  •  ^*^  ■ 
lanos,  Antonia.  isi  :  ,  Awl- 
lanos.  Don  J' 

Nicholas,  22 

31,  121  ;  I-  ••  •  "  >  — 
Pierre,  48  ;    Uacadoa.  butsa. 


240 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


\ 


48,  157-8 ;  Barral,  De,  45, 
94,  218  ;  Barral,  Flora  de, 
45,  46,  154.  ^55>  157  ;  Bar- 
rios, General,  38,  134  ;  Beard, 
Captain,  116;  "Belfast,"  see 
Craig;  Bento,  Guzman,  134, 
218  ;  Brier ly,  Captain,  102, 
167  ;  Brown,  143  ;  Brussels 
Girl  in  "  Heart  of  Darkness," 
97  ;  Cabman  in  The  Secret 
Agent,  142  ;  Captain  of  the 
Patna,  143  ;  Carlier,  48-9, 
125,  169  ;  Carvil,  Bessie,  56, 
69,  152-3  ;  Castro,  Tomas, 
140,  142  ;  Cesar,  140,  141  ; 
Charley,  58,  169  ;  Colchester, 
Maggie,    58 ;     Conde,    II,    60, 

140  ;  Conrad's  Tutor,  16  ; 
Conrad's  Uncle,   15,   22,   140, 

141  ;  Corbelan,  Father,  95  ; 
Cornelius'  Daughter,  153-4  i 
Cousin  in  Chance,  174  ;  Craig, 
33,  120;  Decoud,  38,  39,  132, 
166,201;  Lieutenant  D '  Hubert, 
59-60,  61,  140 ;  Dominic, 
140,  141  ;  Donkin,  32,  33, 
117,  118,  120;  Doramin,  35, 
121, 122;  Etchingham  Granger, 
Miss,  156,  157  ;  Falk,  55, 
109,  126,  165;  Lieutenant 
Feraud,  59,  60,  61,  94,  140, 
173 ;  Fidanza,  Captain,  see 
Nostromo  ;  Foster,  Amy,  54, 
152,      165 ;       Franklin,     46 ; 

rench  Naval  Lieutenant  in 
Lord  Jim,  97,  102,  142  ; 
Fyne,  45,  46  ;  Fyne,  Mrs,  45, 
46,  154-5  J  Gian'  Battista, 
see  Nostromo ;  Goorall, 
Yanko,  54,  165  ;  Gould, 
Charles,  37,  38,  94,  129,  131, 
166 ;  Gould,  Mrs,  37,  89, 
104,  106,  132,  145-9,  150, 
151,  158  ;  Governess  in 
Chance,  158  ;  Hagberd,  Cap- 
tain, 55-6,  99,  140,  141,  152, 
165,  217;  Hagberd,  Harry, 
56,  69,  77,  109 ;  Haldin, 
43,  139  ;  Haldin,  Mrs,  152  ; 
Haldin,  Nathalie,  44,  152  ; 
Heat,  Inspector,  137  ;  Heems- 
kirk,  Lieutenant,  62,  128, 
129  ;   Hermann,  Captain,  55  ; 


Hermann's  Niece,  55,  no, 
155-6 ;  Hervey,  Alvan,  49, 
67,  164,  168  ;  Hervey,  Mrs, 
49,  158  ;  Hirsch,  166-7,  201, 
207 ;  Hudig,  30 ;  Jacobus, 
61,  62,  128,  136,  165,  218 ; 
Jacobus,  Alice,  61,  62,  156, 
157,  165;  Jis^v^Lord,  33-5, 
94,  95,  96,  102,  107,  123-4, 
125,  153  ;  Jukes,  54 ;  Kar- 
ain,  47-8 ;  Kayerts,  48-9, 
125,  169;  Kemp,  John,  64; 
Kurtz,  51,  76,  109,  126,  17^; 
Lakamba,  29,  31;  Laspara, 
Julius,  143  ;  Leonard,  170  ; 
Levaille,  Madame,  158  ;  Lin- 
gard,  Captain,  30,  31,  126 ; 
MacWhirr,  Captain,  53-4,  67, 
77,  93,  128,  165,  166,  217  ; 
Makola,  143,  177-8  ;  Manager 
in  "  Heart  of  Darkness," 
125  ;  Manuel  del  Popolo, 
140,  142  ;  Marlgw^  3^!f— -561 
r^,    51,    68,--7T-,-'77,    84,    95 

1102,      124-5,      158,      162,      2Ilj 

219;  Maroola,  Dain,  29,  iptT, 
'"tTT;  Massy,  52,  114,  117, 
1 1 8-9;  Mersch,  Due  de,  64, 
140,  142  ;  Michaelis,  41,  137  ; 
Mikulin,  Councillor,  43,  139, 
167-8 ;  Mitchell,  Captain, 
132,  173,  211  ;  Montero, 
General,  133-4 »  Monygham, 
Dr,  130,  131-2,  136,  144,  147, 
149,  166,  218 ;  Nelson,  see 
Nielsen  ;  Nielsen,  62  ;  Niel- 
sen, Freya,  62,  63,  153,  169  ; 
Nostromo,  38-9,  130-1,  147, 
149,  156,  166  ;  O'Brien,  140  ; 
Ossipon,  42,  137,  167  ;  Pata 
Matara,  47,  48  ;  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch,  139,  169 ;  Podmore, 
33,  120,  218;  Powell,  46; 
Professor,"  "  The,  42,  137  ; 
Ramirez,  115 ;  Razumov, 
43-4.  94,  96,  137-8.  139,  200; 
Ribiera,  President- Dictator, 
38,  134 ;  Riego,  Don  Bal- 
thasar,  116;  Riego,  Sera- 
phina,  64,  157  ;  Ruiz,  Er- 
minia,  57,  160  ;   Ruiz,  Caspar, 

57,    95  ;     S ,   Madame  de, 

158 ;     Second    Mate    of    the 


INDEX 


241 


Nan-Shan,       171  ;      Sharer,"  I 
"The   Secret,   62;    Singleton.  I 
33,  77,  ii5:  120,  218;   Sophia  ' 
Antonovna,  152,  174;  Sotillo, 
133  ;      Stein,     126;      Sterne, 
114,  143;    Stevie,  40,  41,  42, 
135,  150,  151  ;  Stott-Warten-  i 
heim.   Baron,   40  ;    Taminah,  \ 
157 ;      Tekla,     152  ;      Verloc.  : 
40-1,   42,   74,  94,   135-6,  200,  ; 
218;     Verloc,    Winnie,    41-2,' 

104,  106,  135,  145-7,  149-51. : 

158,  224  ;  Verloc's,  Winnie,  1 
Mother,  42,  151  ;  Viola,  • 
Linda,  39,  115,  156,  207;! 
Viola,  Giorgio,  12,  39,  115-6,  | 
129,  207  ;  Viola,  Gizelle,  39, 
156 ;  Vladimir,  40,  136  ;  I 
Wait,  James,  17,  32,  loi,  > 
1 20-1  ;  Wamibo,  120  ;  Waris,  | 
Dain,  121  ;  Whalley,  Cap-  j 
tain,  52,  114;  Willems,  29,1 
30,  31,  127,  157,  170,  200;! 
Williams,  Mrs,  157  ;  X.,  Mr, 
58,   163  ;    Yundt,  Carl,  137 

Chesterton,  G.  K.,  7,  96 
(quoted),    170  i 

Conduct,  Conrad's  philosoph) 
of,  12,  89-90,  104' 

Confessions,  Rousseau's,  24 

Conrad,  Joseph ;  work  marks 
a  new  epoch,  i  ;  exceptionally 
difficult  writer  to  discuss,  2  ; 
reasons  for  comparative  un- 
popularity, 2-4  ;  critics'  atti- 
tude towards,  4-6 ;  puzzles 
the  English,  7  ;  reasons 
mitigating  against  his  popu- 
larity, 8-9 ;  dignity  of  his 
work,  9 ;  appeared  at  a 
fortunate  epoch,  9-10  ;  feel- 
ing for  duty,  12  ;  his  type 
of  reahsm,  13  ;  aristocratic 
flavour  about  his  work,  14  ; 
birth  and  upbringing,  15-6; 
goes  to  sea,  16  ;  ships  he  sailed 
in,  17-8;  leaves  the  sea,  18;  first 
book  published,  18  ;  his  auto- 
biographical works  described, 
18-24  '>  many  of  his  stories 
founded  on  autobiography, 
25  ;  his  novels  described, 
2S-47  ;     his  short  stories  de- 


scribed,  47-63:  the  novrU 
in  which  he  collaborate  de- 
scribed. 63-5;  one  of  thr 
great  masters  of  atmoapherr 
66;  instances  of  thw.  67  it 
seq.  ;  his  command  of  lan- 
guage, 72;  crrar  '  , 
atmosphere    all -11: 

him,     75;      his     : 

77-8;      his    fcclinK     J"r     • 
sea,  82  ;  intensity  with  • 
his     characters     live.      -. 
exotic    nature    of    his    .v 
sphere,    84-5  ;    its   per',  a 
ness,    86 ;     his   Rrasp    . 
mance,    88 ;      his    svn.;  .\ 
for  simple  and  Rooii   pr.>{'ir. 
90 ;     his    general    conception 
of  character,  92  et  itq  ,    in-j 
terested   in   people  with   iJ/A 
fixes,    93;    touchf's    '.'    -  ." 
holism   in   some   ! 
his   people   faced   v.  • 
lems,     94 ;     his     fccliiiK 
artistic  unity.  96;   hi<»  ^l    • 
97-9  ;   his  sense  of  ; 
100  ;    intlucnce  01    . 
on     his     figures,      i    . 
curiosity,    101-3;     real;' 
his    people,    103 ;     hI^ 
tion  and  creative  <•• 
what  he  admires  1: 
104-5  ;      where    he    t:: 
psychologically.    106.     \'. 
he  fails  psychologically, 
his  austerity  of  aim.   i 
ability    to    make    his    ;  - 
thrilling,     108-9:      his    ..:;.,.: 
ality,    109:     his    p^\.h  !v 
inductive,  109;    vi-ry  ni.«.lrn. 
I II  ;     his   men.    11^    et  it^  . 
always  very  masculine.   11: 
the  sensitiveness  of  the  !.:  -  * 
II 3-4  :    his  old   men     1 1  i 
his     seamen,      11 
negroes  and  Ka-st< 
his    white    men    iii   :  • 
and  Africa.  \zi-<t .    th^- 
acters   in    \osiromo,    1  .• 
other      men.      I34M3- 
women.     144    ft    **H  • 
Gould    and     Winnie     \^- 
145-51  ;    other  good   w*.::.^  • 


242 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


1 51-4  ;  interesting  types  of 
women,  154-8 ;  his  idea  of 
femininity,  158-9 ;  his  irony 
compared  to  that  of  other 
men,  161  ;  often  an  artistic 
device,  162 ;  instances  of 
his  irony,  163  et  seq.  ;  the 
irony  of  incongruous  associa- 
tion, 165-6  ;  and  of  contrast, 
167  ;  and  of  dramatic  cHmax, 
169;  his  humour,  170-4; 
his  irony  more  tragic  than 
comic,  175  ;  French  in  its 
clear  perception  of  motive, 
177-8  ;  his  prose,  180  et  seq.  ; 
English  perfect  and  yet 
foreign,  180-1  ;  change  in 
his  prose,  181 -2  ;  richness 
of  his  early  style,  182-5  '> 
prose  of  his  middle  period, 
186-7  )  originality  of  his 
style,  187-8  ;  latest  style, 
189-92  ;  varieties  in  his  style, 
193-5  .*  its  dignity,  196  ;  style 
subordinate  to  the  whole 
unity  of  the  work,  197  ;  as 
artist,  198  et  seq. ;  own 
conception  of  the  novelist's 
art,  199-200 ;  his  stories 
never  mere  sketches,  200 ; 
his  dramatic  intensity,  200-6  ; 
his  terminations,  207-8 ;  his 
eloquent  silences,  210 ;  his 
sharply-defined  edges,  210-11  ; 
reasons  for  his  narrative  form 
of  relation,  211-13  ;  power 
of  handling  a  crowd,  214 ; 
artistic  aims  constant,  214  ; 
his  plots  natural,  215  ;  his 
eloquence,  216  ;  treatment 
of  inanimate  objects  and 
animals,  216-7  »  ^^is  greatest 
achievements,  217  ;  his  titles 
and  names,  217-8  ;  his  de- 
tails, 218  ;  his  false  steps, 
219  ;  his  position  towards 
readers  and  characters,  219  ; 
his  attitude  towards  art,  220  ; 
a  great  romantic  realist,  222  ; 
easier  to  understand  for  those 
who  know  continental  litera- 
ture, 222  ;  his  tradition,  223  ; 
very     reserved,     225  ;      place 


in  English  literature,  226  ; 
could  never  have  written  in 
any  language  save  the  Eng- 
lish, 227-8  ;  his  Franco-Slav 
leanings,  228-9  ;  French  sym- 
pathies, 229,  231  ;  five  writers 
who  have  influenced  him 
most,  232  ;  Conrad  and  Eng- 
land, 233,  235 
Crime  and  Punishment,  139 
Criticism,  business  of,  1-2  ;  in 
relation  to  Conrad,  4-6  ; 
mistakes  of,  8,  11  ;  pitfall 
of,  170  ;   and  categories,  235 

Daudet,   233 

Diana  of  the  Crossways,  42 

Dickens,  13,  96,  170,  173-4,  227 

Dostoievsky,  2,  9,  94,  97,  iii, 
138,  139,  173,  221,  228,  229, 
230,  234 

Doughty,  C,  196 

Douglas,  Norman,  196 

Duel,"  "  The,  57,  59-60,  61,  85, 
i  88,  94,  140,  173,  217  ;  quoted, 
i       85-6 

Egoist,  The,  225 

End  of  the  Tether,"  "  The,  50, 
51-2.  53,  76,  114,  117,  143, 
178,  217;  quoted,  178 

English  literature,  new  move- 
ment in,  10- 1  ;  lack  of  living 
stylists  in,  196  ;  versatihty  of, 
223  ;  Conrad's  position  in, 
226 ;  Conrad  definitely  an 
English  writer,  227-8 ;  with 
Conrad,  first  enters  Euro- 
pean "  tradition,"  233 

English  Review,  The,  5,  55 

Evelyn,  John,  25 

Eve  of  Saint  Mark,"  "  The,  85 

"  Falk,"  18,  53,  54-5,  57,  109, 
110,126,155,165,217;  quoted, 
155-6 

Fielding,  227 
j  Flaubert,  2,  107,  187,  188,  193, 
194,  197,  199,  214,  218,  220, 
223,  225,  229,  230,  232,  234 

France,  Anatole,  9,  86,  161,  175, 
229,    232 

Francia,  Dr,  134 

French    literature,     Conrad     in 


1 


INDEX 


243 


relation  to,  177,  187,  188,  223, 
228-9,  230-2,  234 
"  Freya  of  the  Seven  Islands," 
9,  61,  62,  63,  76-7,  128-9, 
153,  164,  169,  185,  219; 
quoted,  81-2 

Galsworthy,     John,     7,     161, 

216 
Garnett,  Edward,  5,  18 
"  Gaspar    Ruiz,"    57-8,    61,    95, 

160 
Gissing,  George,  13,  212 
Gogol,  228 
Gorky,  228 

Gourmont,  Remy  de,  175 
Graham,  Cunninghame,  10 
Green  Mansions,  196 

Hardy,  Thomas,  196,  215 
Hawthorne,  N.,  220 

Heart  of  Darkness,"  9,  18,  50, 
'5  53>  72,  76,  95.  97.  102, 
J9,  122,  124,  125,  162,  164, 

178-9,     183,     185,    208,    210, 

217,  219;  quoted,  72,  84,  122, 

179,    208 
Henley,  W.  H.,  19 
Hichens,  Robert,  7 
Hudson,  W,  H.,  3,  196 
Hueffer,  Ford  Madox,  5,  63,  83, 

89,  232  (quoted) 
Hugo,  Victor,  2,  137,  229,  231 
Humour,      Conrad's,      Slavonic 

rather    than     English,     1 70 ; 

keen,  173  ;    shows  a  trace  of 

Dickens,   173-4 
Huneker,  James,  220  (quoted) 

Ibsen,   hi 

Idiots,"  "  The,  47,  48,  158 
"  II  Conde,"  57,  60,  61,  140,  200 
Informer,"  "  The,  57,  58,  61 
Inheritors.  The,  63-4,   140,   142, 

156,  157 
Irony,  Conrad  s,  severe  or  pity- 
ing, 9  ;  typical  of  later  work, 
24  ;  elusive  and  widespread, 
161;  melancholy,  161,  175; 
different  from  that  of  the 
Comic  Sphit,  162  ;  various 
manifestations  of ,  163-5;  in  in- 
congruous association,  165-6; 
very  delicate,  166 ;  in  contrast. 


166-9  :     in   dramatic    cl 

169;  French  influence  in.  177* 
Irony,  Danger   of.   169-70';   (oe 

of  fanaticism.   174 
Iames,    Henry,    10.    96,    148. 

196,  199.  213.  215,  aao.  a3ol 

231.  232.  233 

'  KaRAIN,"    47-8,    50.     lit 

Keats,  85 

Kipling.  Rudyard.   10,   14 

Korzeniowski.      Tcodor      Joie! 

Konrad,  14 

Lagoon."  "  The.  47.  49-50.  lai  ; 

quoted,    1S4 

Lawrence,  D.  H..  iz 

Lermontov.  2 28 
i  Life,    Conrad's    philosophv    v  f 
I      90,  93.  230 
|.Locke,  W.  ].jjl^^ 
\fLord  Jim,  4/^33-7,  7,V.4.  04  '    / 
I    97,  ^02^4077* n.  i-».   ^- 

iH'J,   i63^n69.   172,   U)^.    . 
^jT,  214,  217  ;quotcti.  73.  :      '. 
I      143,  184-5,  195-6.  208.  io^ 
I  Love   in    fiction,    9 ;     Connul*» 
treatment  of,  9,  113.  145 
Madame  Bovary,  223,  230 
MaeterUnck,  77 
Mallarm^,  231 
'  Markino,  Yoshio,  iSo 
Masefield,  John,  10.  86 
Maupassant.   13.   187,  2M 
Mayor  of  CasUrbndge.  The.  lis 
Men,   Conrad's,   importance  <>!. 
112;    always  mascuhnr    -t: 
sensitivencss    of    the     • 
113  ;      influence    of    ol  : 
on,    1 14-7  ;     influence   < 
sea  on.  117-20;  in  the  li 
121-34  ;     in    various    \'..^  ^ 

134-43      ,  ,.     .       -.      , 
Merchant  of  \  enue.  Tkt.  W 

Meredith.  2.  7.  4^.  ^'  »'*• 
quoted.  159-60.  102.  213.  i»4. 
222-3.  224-5.  226.  233.  -^5 

Milton,   19 

Mirror  of  the  Sea.  The  ly  i 
19-22,  2^    i4.    7^-  *4^ 
quoted,  iii.  21.  21-i.  22.  .  -   - 

Moore,  George.  10,  9<».  -'J 


U4, 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


National  Observer,  The,  ii 

Nelson,    21 

New  Age,  The,  169 

New  Grub  Street,  212 

New  Review,  The,  19 

Nigger  of  the  "  Narcissus,"  The, 

17,  18,  19,  32-3,  79,  101-2, 
III,  116-7,  120-1,  186,  188, 
195,  208,  217;  quoted,  79, 
80-1,  117  (2),  118,  121,  184 

Norton,  Mrs,  42 

Nostromo,  viii,  4,  12,  37-40,  46, 
70-1,  74,  94,  95,  104,  III,  115, 
i29-34>  145-9,  151,  156,  166-7, 
173,  186,  193,  195,  201-7, 
208,  211,  214,  217,  218,  234; 
quoted,  70-1,  115-6,  131,  133, 
134.  136,  144,  146,  148,  149, 
167,  173,  186-7,  187,  201-4, 
204-6,  209  (2) 

"  One  Day  More,"  55 

On  the  Eve,  95 

Ordeal  of  Richard  Fever  el.  The,  69 

Outcast  of  the  Islands,   An,  29, 

30-2,  79,  121,  122,  126-7,  156. 

170-1,    175,    179,    200,    207; 

quoted,    80,    171,    175-7 
Outpost    of     Progress,"     "  An, 

18,  47,  48-9,  50,  125,  169, 
177,  208;  quoted,  177-8 

Paradise  Lost,  19 

Pater,  Walter,  8 

Pepys,  Samuel,  25 

Personality  in  authors,  6,  89 

Poe,   E.  A.,  231 

Portrait  of  a  Lady,  The,  147 

Prose,  Conrad's,  mannered  but 
dignified,  10 ;  shows  foreign 
influence,  180,  195 ;  changes 
in,  181-2,  185-6,  188-9,  193-9  ; 
idiosyncrasies  of,  182-3  .' 
rich,  182,  186;  musical, 
183-5  '»  originality  of,  187-8  ; 
indebtedness  to  Flaubert, 
188  ;    dignity  of,  196-7 

Psychology,  Conrad's,  idea  of, 
developed  in  hints,  9  ; 
realistic,  92  ;  tends  to  the 
study  of  the  id^e  fixe,  93  ; 
occasionally  symbolic,  93-4 ; 
subjective  and  objective,  95  ; 


sane,     97-100 ;      atmospheric, 
loi  ;    full  of  curiosity,  101-3  ; 
founded    on    actuality,    103  ; 
intuitive   and    creative,    104 ; 
!      all   tinged    by    his    own    per- 
I      sonality,     105-6 ;      impressive 
through     its      reality,      106  ; 
>      disregards     universal     types, 
;       107  ;    concerned  entirely  with 
I      its   characters,    107-8  ;     thril- 
ling,    108-9 ',      enlivened     by 
flashes    of    genius,    109  ;     in- 
j       ductive,    no;     as    much    in- 
;      terested     in     personality     as 
I      character,      no;       romantic, 
I       no;    modern,    in 
I  Purple  Land,  The,  3 

Realism,  Conrad's,  absorbed 
with  life,  10 ;  his  special 
kind  of,  13  ;  founded  on 
actual  experience,  25,  103  ; 
power  of  building  from  practi- 
cally nothing,  71  ;  atmo- 
spheric, 75  ;  sometimes  sym- 
bolic, 77 ;  exemplified  in 
his  figures,  92,  112,  151  ; 
gives  the  illusion  of  inevit- 
ability, 106  ;  invincible  belief 
in,   199-200 

Rembrandt,   66 

Return,"  "  The,  47,  49,  50,  76, 
164,  168,  183,  208,  210,  216, 
217,  219;  quoted,  68,  168, 
183,   209 

Rhythm,   188 

Romance,  Conrad's,  antipa- 
thetic to  some,  3,  7 ;  full 
of  imagery  in  earlier  work, 
24  ;  power  over,  88-9  ;  must 
understand  it  to  know  his 
character,  no;  his  melo- 
•  drama  derived  from,  144; 
includes  realism,  199 ;  its 
dramatic  force,  216 ;  its 
passionate  basis,  229 

Romance,  64-5,  89,  116,  140, 
142,  157  ;  quoted,  89 

Rousseau,   24 

Ruskin,  220 

Russian  literature,  Conrad  in 
relation  to,  9,  86,  173,  175, 
223,   228 


INDEX 


245 


Sainte-Beuve,  226 

Sanity,  Conrad's,  98-9,  219 

Scott,  214,  227 

„Sea,  The,  Conrad's  feeling  for, 
19-20,  7S-82,  117,  119,  182 

Secret  Agent,  The.  6,  9,  4aT3,  45, 
74.  77.  84-5,  94,  104,  i^^-rrj\ 
142,  145-6,  149-51,  162,  163, 
166,  167,  175,  186,  200,  208, 
216,  217;  quoted,  74-5,  1^6, 
137,    167 

Secret  Sharer,"  "  The,  61,  62, 
63.   76,   173,  217     • 

Set  of  Six,  A,  57-61 

Shakespeare,  13,  69,  98,  99, 
129,  151,  221 

Shaw,  Bernard,  7,  109,  225 

Shelley,  69,  221 

Small  Boy  and  Others,  A,  215 

Smile  of  Fortune,"  "A,  61-2 
76,  88,  120,  128,  156,  157 
164-5,  173,  217;  quoted 
189-92 

Smoke,   168 

Some  Reminiscences,  15,  16,  18, 
22-4,  127,  140,  141,  188,  199, 
215,  218;  quoted,  20,  24,  105, 
199-200,  200 

Stendhal,  223 

Stevenson,  R.  L.,  9,  11,  219 

Strindberg,  iii,  225 

Style,  Misconceptions  regard- 
ing, 8 

Swift,  163,  194 

Sylvie  and  Bruno,  21 

Synge,  J.  M.,  9 

Syren  Land,   196 

Tagore,    Rabindranath,    12 

Tales  of  Unrest,  47-50,  182,  18 

Tchekov,    228 

Thackeray,  194,  225 

Thais,  87 

Times,  The,  42 

Tolstoy,  106,  109,  III,  214, 
223,  228,  230,  234 

"  To-morrow,"  53,  55-6,  57, 
76,  99,  109,  140,  141,  152-3, 
165,  217;  quoted,  69,   184 

Tragedy,  Conrad's,  romantic, 
66-7 ;  its  uneasy  emotion, 
76-7  ;  in  a  lover  and  in  a 
parent,  113-4  ;   in  the  savage. 


I      122  ;    drives  to  madncM  and 
!      despair.  129,138;   its  m  1  !^^. 

exhibition,  146-8 ;   its   ' 

exhil)ition.  150-1 ';    in 

\vomen,    152-4  ;     t" 

his  irony.   175  ;     • 

200-7;     its   pcrv.L  ...    . 

choly.    234 
TroUope.  Anthony,  i  \ 
Turgenev.  13.  86.  95.  107.  li;. 

161.  168,  219.  220,  225,  229.' 
I      230,  232 
I  'Twixt  Land  and  Sea,  18.  61-3 

;  Typhoon,  53-7.  165 

I  "Typhoon,"    18,    5V4.    56.   67. 

I       93,    117,    "8,    12H.    165.    171. 

173,  217;  quoted.  118-9.  »J<>. 

171-2,  183-4,  209 

Under   Western  Eyes.  43-3.   46. 

94,  96.  137-9.   M3.  152.  158. 

163,  167-8.  168-9,  174.  i7<. 
181,  186, 189,  200.210;  .-,.  *■  ' 
72,  136-7,   152,  174.  :  ', 

Unity  of  a  work  of  art,  C'  i  ;  i . 

insistence  on.  75,  96,  143, 
197,    198 

Vanity  Fair,  33 
Velasquez,  66 
Voltaire,    161 

Wells.  H.  G.,  7.  12 
Whitman,  Walt.  2.  66.  69.  221. 

229,    2^1 
Wilde,  Oscar.  8 
Women.     Conrad's,     poi^anrr 

of    his    good.     It 

mysteriously  attr.-i 

some    otfensivo,     is. 

ninity    essential     m.     i 

compared     with     Mrrr  ;  • 

159-60 

Veats,  W.  B..  12.  77 

Yellow  Book.  Thr.  1 1 

Youth.  50-1.  182.  217.  2U 

"  Youth."  3.   17.  50-»'   ^         ' 

71,  76.  88,  116.  120.  I.N    : 

1 86,  208,  217;  quote*!.  <  ?  •>. 
71.  88 

Zola.  Emile.  13 


TRI-N-TED   Br 

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